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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



BY MRS. SHELLEY. 



Lui non trov' io, ma suoi santi vestigi 

Tutti rivolti alia superna strada 

Veggio, lurge da' laghi averni e stigi. — Peteaeca.; 



PHILADELPHIA: 
CRISSY & MARKLEY, 4 MINOR STREET. 

STEEEOTYPED ET L. JOHNSON AND CO. 

185L 



^^'^s 



k^ 



\<i^ 



TO 

PERCY FLORENCE SHELLEY, 

OF HIS ILLUSTRIOUS FATHER 

ARE DEDICATED, 

BY HIS AFFECTIONATE MOTHER, 

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY. 



LONDOX, 

20th January, 1339. 



PUEFACE. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



Obstacles have long existed to my presenting the public with a perfect 
edition of Shelley's Poems. These being at last happily removed, I hasten to 
fulfil an important duty, — that of giving the productions of a sublime genius 
to the world, with all the correctness possible, and of, at the same time, detail- 
ing the history of those productions, as they sprung, living and warm, from his 
heart and brain. I abstain from any remark on the occurrences of his private 
life ; except, inasmuch as the passions which they engendered inspired his 
poetry. This is not the time to relate the truth ; and I should reject any 
colouring of the truth. No account of these events has ever been given at all 
approaching reality in their details, either as regards himself or others ; nor 
shall I further allude to them than to remark, that the errors of action, com- 
mitted by a man as noble and generous as Shelley, may, as far as he only is 
concerned, be fearlessly avowed, by those who loved him, in the firm convic- 
tion, that were they judged impartially, his character would stand in fairer and 
brighter light than that of any contemporary. Whatever faults he had, ought to 
find extenuation among his fellows, since they proved him to be human ; with- 
out them, the exalted nature of his soul would have raised him into something 
divine. 

The qualities that struck any one newly introduced to Shelley, were, first, a 
gentle and cordial goodness that animated his intercourse with warm affection, 
and helpful sympathy. The other, the eagerness and ardour with which he was 
attached to the cause of human happiness and improvement ; and the fervent 
eloquence with which he discussed such subjects. His conversation was marked 
by its happy abundance, and the beautiful language in which he clothed his 
poetic ideas and philosophical notions. To defecate life of its misery and its 
evil, was the ruling passion of his soul : he dedicated to it every power of his 
mind, every pulsation of his heart. He looked on political freedom as the direct 
agent to effect the happiness of mankind ; and thus any new-sprung hope of 
liberty inspired a joy and an exultation more intense and wild than he could 
have felt for any personal advantage. Those who have never experienced the 
workings of passion on generous and unselfish subjects, cannot understand this ; 
and it must be difficult of comprehension to the younger generation rising 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



around, since they cannot remember the scorn and hatred with which the par- 
tisans of reform were regarded some few years ago, nor the persecutions to 
which they were exposed. He had been from youth the victim of the state of 
feeling inspired by the reaction of the French Revolution ; and believing firmly 
in the justice and excellence of his views, it cannot be wondered that a nature 
as sensitive, as impetuous, and as generous as his, should put its whole force 
into the attempt to alleviate for others the evils of those systems from which he 
had himself suffered. Many advantages attended his birth ; he spurned them 
all when balanced with what he considered his duties. He was generous to 
imprudence, devoted to heroism. 

These characteristics breathe throughout his poetry. The struggle for human 
v^eal ; the resolution firm to martyrdom ; the impetuous pursuit ; the glad 
triumph in good ; the determination not to despair. Such were the features 
that marked those of his works which he regarded with most complacency, as 
sustained by a lofty subject and useful aim. 

In addition to these, his poems may be divided into two classes, — the purely 
imaginative, and those which sprung from the emotions of his heart. Among 
the former may be classed " The Witch of Atlas," " Adonais," and his latest 
composition, left imperfect, " The Triumph of Life." In the first of these par- 
ticularly, he gave the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in every idea as it rose ; 
in all, there is that sense of mystery which formed an essential portion of his 
perception of life — a clinging to the subtler inner spirit, rather than to the out- 
ward form — a curious and metaphysical anatomy of human passion and per- 
ception. 

The second class is, of course, the more popular, as appealing at once to 
emotions common to us all ; some of these rest on the passion of love ; others 
on grief and despondency ; others on the sentiments inspired by natural objects. 
Shelley's conception of love was exalted, absorbing, allied to all that is purest 
and noblest in our nature, and warmed by earnest passion ; such it appears 
when he gave it a voice in verse. Yet he was usually averse to expressing 
these feelings, except when highly idealized ; and many of his more beautiful 
effusions he had cast aside, unfinished, and they were never seen by me till 
after I had lost him. Others, as, for instance, " Rosalind and Helen," and 
" Lines written among the Euganean Hills," I found among his papers by 
chance ; and with some difficulty urged him to complete them. There are 
others, such as the " Ode to the Sky Lark," and " The Cloud," which, in the 
opinion of many critics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his pro- 
ductions. They were written as his mind prompted, listening to the carolling 
of the bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy ; or marking the cloud as it sped 
across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. 

No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. His 
extreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectual pursuits ; and 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



rendered his mind keenly alive to every perception of outward objects, as well 
as to his internal sensations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of 
human life, the disappointments w^e meet, and the galling sense of our own 
mistakes and errors, fraught with pain ; to escape from such, he delivered up 
his soul to poetry, and felt happy when he sheltered himself from the influence 
of human sympathies, in the wildest regions of fancy. His imagination has 
been termed too brilliant, his thoughts too subtle. He loved to idealize reality; 
and this is a taste shared by few. We are willing to have our passing whims 
exalted into passions, for this gratifies our vanity ; but few of us understand or 
sympathize with the endeavour to ally the love of abstract beauty, and adoration 
of abstract good, the tb dyaSoi/ xai to xaxbv of the Socratic philosophers, with our 
sympathies with our kind. In this Shelley resembled Plato ; both taking more 
delight in the abstract and the ideal, than in the special and tangible. This did 
not result from imitation ; for it was not till Shelley resided in Italy that he made 
Plato his study ; he then translated his Symposium and his Ion; and the English 
language boasts of no more brilliant composition, than Plato's Praise of Love, 
translated by Shelley. To return to his own poetry. The luxury of imagina- 
tion, w^hich sought nothing beyond itself, as a child burdens itself with spring 
flowers, thinking of no use beyond the enjoyment of gathering them, often 
showed itself in his verses : they will be only appreciated by minds which have 
resemblance to his own ; and the mystic subtlety of many of his thoughts will 
share the same fate. The metaphysical strain that characterizes much of what 
he has written, was, indeed, the portion of his works to which, apart from those 
whose scope was to awaken mankind to aspirations for what he considered the 
true and good, he was himself particularly attached. There is much, however, 
that speaks to the many. When he would consent to dismiss these huntings 
after the obscure, which, entwined with his nature as they were, he did with 
difficulty, no poet ever expressed in sweeter, more heart-reaching, or more pas- 
sionate verse, the gentler or more forcible emotions of the soul. 

A wise friend once wrote to Shelley, " You are still very young, and in cer- 
tain essential respects you do not yet sufficiently perceive that you are so." It is 
seldom that the young know what youth is, till they have got beyond its period; 
and time was not given him to attain this knowledge. It must be remembered 
that there is the stamp of such inexperience on all he wrote ; he had not com- 
pleted his nine-and-twentieth year when he died. The calm of middle life did 
not add the seal of the virtues which adorn maturity to those generated by the 
vehement spirit of youth. Through life also he was a martyr to ill health, and 
constant pain wound up his nerves to a pitch of susceptibility that rendered his 
views of life different from those of a man in the enjoyment of healthy sensations. 
Perfectly gentle and forbearing in manner, he suffered a good deal of internal 
irritability, or rather excitement, and his fortitude to bear was almost always on 
the stretch ; and thus, during a short life, had gone through more experience 
of sensation, than many whose existence is protracted. " If I die to-morrow," 
he said, on the eve of his unanticipated death, " I have lived to be older than 
my father." The weight of thought and feeling burdened him heavily ; you 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



read his sufferings in his attenuated frame, while you perceived the mastery he 
held over them in his animated countenance and brilliant eyes. 

He died, and the world showed no outward sign ; but his influence over 
mankind, though slow in growth, is fast augmenting, and in the ameliorations 
that have taken place in the political state of his country, we may trace in part 
the operation of his arduous struggles. His spirit gathers peace in its new state 
from the sense that, though late, his exertions were not made in vain, and in 
the progress of the liberty he so fondly loved. 

He died, and his place among those who knew him intimately has never 
been filled up. He walked beside them like a spirit of good to comfort and 
benefit — to enlighten the darkness of life with irradiations of genius, to cheer it 
with his sympathy and love. Any one, once attached to Shelley, must feel all 
other affections, however true and fond, as wasted on barren soil in comparison. 
It is our best consolation to know that such a pure-minded and exalted being 
w^as once among us, and now exists where we hope one day to join him : — 
although the intolerant, in their blindness, poured down anathemas, the Spirit 
of Good, who can judge the heart, never rejected him. 

In the notes appended to the poems, I have endeavoured to narrate the origin 
and history of each. The loss of nearly all letters and papers which refer to his 
early life, renders the execution more imperfect than it would otherwise have 
been. I have, however, the liveliest recollection of all that was done and said 
during the period of my knowing him. Every impression is as clear as if 
stamped yesterday, and I have no apprehension of any mistake in my statements 
as far as they go. In other respects, I am, indeed, incompetent : but I feel the 
importance of the task, and regard it as my most sacred duty. I endeavour to 
fulfil it in a manner he would himself approve ; and hope in this publication to 
lay the first stone of a monument due to Shelley's genius, his sufferings, and his 
■\drtues : 

S' al seguir son tarda, 
Forse avverra che '1 bel nome gentile 
Consacrero con questa stanca penna. 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

In revising this new edition, and carefully consulting Shelley's scattered and 
confused papers, I found a few fragments which had hitherto escaped me, and 
was enabled to complete a few poems hitherto left unfinished. What at one 
time escapes the searching eye, dimmed by its own earnestness, becomes clear 
at a future period. By the aid of a friend I also present some poems complete 
and correct, which hitherto have been defaced by various mistakes and omis- 
sions. It was suggested that the Poem " To the Queen of my Heart," was 
falsely attributed to Shelley. I certainly find no trace of it among his papers, 
and as those of his intimate friends whom I have consulted never heard of it, 
I omit it. 

Two Poems are added of some length, " Swellfoot the Tyrant," and " Peter 
Bell the Third." I have mentioned the circumstances under which they were 
written^n the notes ; and need only add, that they are conceived in a very dif- 
ferent spirit from Shelley's usual compositions. They are specimens of the 
burlesque and fanciful ; but although they adopt a familiar style and homely 
imagery, there shine through the radiance of the poet's imagination the earnest 
views and opinions of the politician and the moralist. 

At my request the publisher has restored the omitted passages of Queen 
Mab. — I now present this edition as a complete collection of my husband's 
poetical works, and I do not foresee that I can hereafter add to or take away a 
word or line. 



Putney, Nmemhei- 6th, 1839. 



n= 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

QUEEN MAB 17 

TO HARRIET **** lb. 

NOTES .,...••••••••• 36 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR . .•..••••.» 56 

ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 60 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR ...........66 

THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. A POEM, IN TWELVE CANTOS . . 68 

116 



NOTE BT THE EDITOR 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. A LYRICAL DRAMA, IN FOUR ACTS 118 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR ....... ... 146 

THE CENCI. A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS 150 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR .......... 180 

RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE FAMILT OF THE CENCI .... 183 

HELLAS. A LYRICAL DRAMA 189 

NOTES . . . . . . . . . . . . . .201 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR ........«• 203 

OSDIPUS TYRANNUS; OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. A TRAGEDY, 

IN TWO ACTS -205 

NOTE BT THE EDITOR 215 

EARLY POEMS— 

MUTABILITT ............. 216 

ON DEATH lb. 

A SUMMER-EVENING CUUROH-TARD, I.ECHDAXE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE . . . ib. 

TO * * * * . ib. 

11 



12 CONTENTS. 




EARLY POEMS- 


PAGE 


STANZAS. APBIL, 1814 , , 


217 


XINES 


. ib. 


TO WOaDSWORTH ..••«....• 


. ib. 


FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OP BONAPARTE • • 


. 218 - 


NOTE BT THE EDITOR , , , , 


ib. 


POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXVI.— 




THE SUNSET 


. 219 


HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY . 


ib. 


MONT BLANC. LINES WRITTEN IN THE TALE OF CHAMOUNI . 


. 220 ■ 


NOTE BX THE EDITOR . 


221 


POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXVIL— 




PRINCE ATHANASE. A FRAGMENT 


. 223 


PART I. 


ib. 


FRAGMENTS OF PRINCE ATHANASE. PART II. .... 


. 224 


FRAGMENT I. 


ib. 


FRAGMENT II. . 


. 225 


FRAGMENT III 


ib. 


FRAGMENT IV 


. 226 


Marianne's dream 


ib. 


TO CONSTANTIA SINGING 


. 227 


TO CONSTANTIA . , . 


228 


DEATH 


. ib. 


SONNET. OZXMANDIAS . . • • 


ib. 


ON F. G 


. ib. 


LINES TO A CRITIC 


ib. 


LINES 


. ib. 


NOTE BT THE EDITOR .••••.... 


229 


POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXVni— 




ROSALIND AND HELEN . 


. 231 


LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS 


242 


JULIAN AND MADELLO. A CONVERSATION 


. 246 


PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES ........ 


252 


THE PAST 


. ib. 


THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE 


ib. 


TO MART 


. 253 


ON A FADED VIOLET 


ib. 


MISERT. A FRAGMENT 


. ib. 


STANZAS. WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES . . . . 


254 


MAZENGHI 


. ib. 

1 



CONTENTS. 13 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXVIII.— page 

SONG FOB TASSO 254 

SONNET 255 

NOTE BT THE EDITOIl •'.''•••••• lb. 

POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXIX.— 

THE MASatfE OF ANARCHY .••••••••• 257 

FETER BZLL THE THIRD 262 

PART I. DEATH 264 

FART II. THE DEVIL 265 

FART III. BELL ....•••••..ib. 

FART IT. SIN • 267 

FART y. GRACE ..•«••••... 268 

FART VI. DAMNATION 269 

FART VII. DOUBLE DAMNATION ..... . . 271 

LINES WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION . . . 273 

SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND ib. 

SIMILES, FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819 ..... ib. 

AN ODE, TO THE ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY ib. 

ENGLAND IN 1819 274 

ODE TO HEAVEN .......ib. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND •... 275 

AN EXHORTATION ib. 

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY 276 

ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDI DA VINCI, IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY . ib. 

NOTE BY THE EDITOR 277 

POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXX.— 

THE SENSITIVE PLANT .>•<■•••••• 280 

PART I. ......*••••• ib. 

PART II 281 

PART III. ..••■•••■••. ib. 

CONCLUSION 283 

A VISION OF THE SEA ....••••.• ib. 

THE CLOUD .....•••...*. 285 

love's philosophy ......••«.. ib. 

TO 286 

TO A SKYLARK ib. 

ODE TO LIBERTY ....< 287 

ARETHUSA 290 

SONG OF PROSERPINE, WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE PLAIN OF ENNA ib. 

HYMN OF APOLLO .....-....•« 291 

B 



14 CONTENTS. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXX— p^oe 

HXMN OF FAK 291 

TUB aUKSTION lb. 

THE TWO SFiniTS. AN ALLEGORT 292 

XETTEK TO KARIA GISBORKE . . . lb. 

TO MART, ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOXI.OWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE 

OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST ...... 295 

THE WITCH OF ATLAS ..lb. 

ODE TO NAPLES •. 301 

AUTUMN. A SIRGE ••... 303 

THE WANING MOON ........... lb. 

DEATH ib. 

KIBERTT ••••*•• ib. 

TO THE MOON • • • • »• .lb. 

SUMMER AND WINTER lb. 

THE TOWER OF FAMINE ....•*..... 304 

AN ALLEGORT •••• lb. 

THE world's wanderers ....lb. 

SONNET ••••••.. ib. 

LINES TO A REVIEWER ib. 

NOTE BY THE EDITOR ....•••••• 305 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXXI.— 

EPIPSYCHIDION: verses addressed to THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADT 

EMILIA V , NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF . . . 307 

ADONAIS; AN ELEGX ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS .... 313 

TO E* * V* * * 319 

TIME ib. 

FROM THE ARABIC. AN IMITATION ib. 

TO NIGHT ••• ib. 

TO — — ...•.#••••••• ib. 

MUTABILITT •••••• 320 

THE FUGITIVES •••.•••••••. ib. 

LINES ..•••••••••••• ib. 

TO ••••••••••••• ib. 

SONG ••.*•• 321 

TO . ib. 

LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON . ib. 

A FRAGMENT 322 

GINEVRA ...••• • lb. 

THE DIRGE • ^^^ 



EVENING. rONTE A MARE, PISA 



ib. 



CONTENTS. 15 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXXL— page 

TO-MOBKOW ..•.•i.<*>«> 324 

A BRIDAL SONS .lb. 

A LAMENT ib. 

TBE BOAT, ON THE SEBCHIO 325 

THE AZIOLA lb. 

A EBAGMENT 326 

TO ib. 

GOOB-KIGHT ib. 

LINES TO AX INDIAN AIB ib. 

MUSIC ......ib. 

TO 327 

A LAMENT ....... ......ib. 

SONNET. FOLITICAL 6BEATNESS ib. 

SIBGE FOB THE TEAR ....ib. 

NOTE BY THE EDITOB ..'.. 328 

POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXXII.— 

THE ZUCCA 330 

TO A LADT WITH A GUITAB 331 

THE MAGNETIC LADT TO HEB PATIENT ..lb. 

FBAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DBAMA 332 

TO 333 

THE INVITATION .....«• ib. 

THE BECOLLECTION * 334 

A SONQ 335 

LINES *.^* • ^^■ 

THE ISLE •••••... ib. 

CHABLES THE FIRST, A FBAGMKNT '. •• 336 

THE TBIUMPH OF LIFE ..•..*.... 340 

FBAGMENTS . .......•.•.• 346 

NOTE BY THE EDITOB 349 

PEEFACE TO THE VOLUME OF POSTHUMOUS POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1822 . 353 

TRANSLATIONS— 

HIMNS OF HOMEB. 

HYMN TO MEBCURY .........^. 357 

TO CASTOB AND POLLUX 364 

TO THE MOON . . . ib. 

— — TO THE SUN .......... 365 

— — TO THE EABTH, MOTHEB OF ALL .•••... ib. 

TO MINEEVA ib. 



16 CONTENTS. 



TRANSLATIONS- page 

THE CYCLOPS ; A SATTRIC DHAMA, TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURI- 
PIDES 366 

SPIRIT OF PLATO, FROM THE GREEK . 376 

FROM THE GREEK ••....lb. 

TO STELLA ...•••••••••• ib. 

FROM PLATO ••••lb. 

SOSrSTETS FROM THE GREEK OF M0SCHU8 •••...• lb. 

SONNET FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE ....•«. .lb. 

SCENES FROM THE "MAGICO PRODIGIOSo" OF CALDERON .... 377 

SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 385 



THE 



POETICAL WOEKS 



OF 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



TO HARRIET 



* » * » * 



Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world, 
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn 1 
Whose is the warm and partial praise, 
Virtue's most sweet reward ] 

Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul 
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow 1 
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on, 
And loved mankind the more 1 



Harriet ! on thine : — thou were my purer mind ; 

Thou wert the inspiration of my song ; 
Thine are these early wilding flowers, 
Though garlanded by me. 

Then press into thy breast this pledge of love, 
And know, though time may change and years may 

Each flow'ret gathered in my, heart, [roll. 

It consecrates to tliine. 



aUEEN MAB. 



L 

How wonderful is Death, 

Death and his brother Sleep ! 
One, pale as yonder waning moon, 

With lips of lurid blue ; 

The other, rosy as the morn 
When throned on ocean's wave, 

It blushes o'er the world : 
Yet both so passing wonderful ! 

Hath then the gloomy power 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres. 
Seized on her sinless soul ] 
Must then that peerless form 
Which love and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, those azure veins 
Which steal like streams along a field of snow. 
That lovely outline, which is fair 
As breatliing marble, perish 1 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 

But loathsomeness and ruin ] 
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme. 
On which the Ughtest heart might moralize 1 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 
SteaUng o'er sensation. 
Which the breath of roseate morning 
Chaseth into darkness 1 
3 



Will Ian the wake again, 
And give that faithful bosom joy 
W^hose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, hfe, and rapture fi-om her smile 1 

Yes ! she will wake again. 
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, 
And silent those sweet lips, 
Once breathing eloquence 
That might have soothed a tiger's rage, 
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. 
Her dewy eyes are closed, 
And on their hds, whose texture fine 
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, 
The baby Sleep is pillow'd : 
Her golden tresses shade 
The bosom's stainless pride. 
Curling like tendrils of the parasite 
Around a marble column. 

Hark ! whence that rushing sound 1 

'Tis like the wondrous strain 
That round a lonely ruin swells. 
Which, wandering on the echoing shore. 

The enthusiast hears at evening : 
'Tis softer than the west wind's sigh ; 
'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Of that strange lyre whose strings 
The genii of the breezes sweep : 

B 2 17 



18 



QUEEN MAB. 



Those lines of rainbow light 
Are like the moonbeams when they fall 
Through some cathedral window, but the teints 
Are such as may not find 
Comparison on earth. 
Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! 
Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air ; 
Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, 
And stop obedient to the reins of light : 
These the Queen of Spells drew in, 
She spread a charm around the spot. 
And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, 
Long did she gaze, and silently 
Upon the slumbering maid. 
Oh ! not the visioned poet in his dreams, 
When silvery clouds float through the wilder'd brain. 
When every sight of lovely, wild and grand, 
Astonishes, enraptures, elevates — 
When fancy at a glance combines 
The wond'rous and the beautiful, — 
So bright, so fair, so wild a shape 
Hath ever yet beheld, 
As that which reined the coursers of the air, 
And poured the magic of her gaze 
Upon the sleeping maid. 

The broad and yellow moon 
Shone dimly through her form — 

That for'in of faultless symmetry ; 

The pearly and pellucid car 

Moved not the moonlight's line : 
'Twas not an earthly pageant ; 

Those who had looked upon the sight, 
Passing all human glory, 
Saw not the yellow moon, 
Saw not the mortal scene, 
Heard not the night-wind's rush, 
Heard not an earthly sound. 
Saw but the fairy pageant. 
Heard but the heavenly strains 
That fill'd the lonely dwelling. 

The Fairy's fi'ame was slight ; yon fibrous cloud. 
That catches but the palest tuige of even, 
And which the stnuning eye can hardly seize 
When melting into eastern twilight's shadow, 
Were scarce so thin, so slight ; but the fair star 
That gems the glittering coronet of morn. 
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, 
As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form, 
Spread a purpurcal halo round the scene. 
Yet with an undulating motion, 
Swa)'ed to her outline gracefully. 
From her celestial car 
The Fairy Queen descended. 
And thrice she waved her wand 
Circled with wreaths of amaranth: 
Her thin and misty form 
Moved with the moving air. 
And the clear silver tones, 
As thus she spoke, were such 
As are unheard by all but gifted ear. 

FAIRT. 

Stars ! your balmiest influence shed ! 
Elements ! your wrath suspend I 



Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds 

That circle thy domain ! 
Let not a breath be seen to stir 
Around yon grass-grown ruin's height. 
Let even the restless gossamer 
Sleep on the moveless air ! 
Soul of lanthe ! thou 
Judged alone worthy of the envied boon 
That waits the good and the sincere ; that waits 
Those who have struggled, and with resolute will 
Vanquish'd earth's pride and meanness, burst the 
The icy chains of custom, and have shone [chains. 
The day-stars of their age ; — Soul of lanthe. 
Awake ! arise ! 

Sudden arose 
lanthe's Soul ; it stood 
All beautiful in naked purity. 
The perfect semblance of its bodily frame. 
Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, 
Each stain of earthliness 
Had passed away, it reassumed 
Its native dignity, and stood 
Immortal amid ruin. 

Upon the couch the body lay, 
Wrapt in the depth of slumber: 
Its features were fixed and meaningless, 
Yet animal life was there. 
And every organ yet performed 
Its natural functions ; 'twas a sight 
Of wonder to behold the body and soul. 
The self-same lineaments, the same 
Marks of .identity were there ; 
Yet, oh how ditferent ! One aspires to heaven, 
Pants for its sempiternal heritage, 
And ever-changing, ever-rising still. 

Wantons in endless being. 
The other, for a time the unwilling sport 
Of circumstance and passion, struggles on ; 
Fleets through its sad duration rapidly ; 
Then like a useless and worn-out machine. 
Rots, perishes, and passes. 



Spirit ! who hast dived so deep ; 
Spirit ! who hast soar'd so high ; 
Thou the fearless, thou the mild, 
Accept the boon thy worth hath earned. 
Ascend the car with me. 

SPIRIT. 

Do I dream 1 Is this new feeling 
But a vision'd ghost of slumber 1 

If indeed I am a soul, 
A free, a disembodied soul, 
Speak again to me. 



I am the Fairy Mab : to me 'tis given 
The wonders of the human world to keep. 
The secrets of the immeasurable past, 
In the unfailing consciences of men. 
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find : 
The future, from the causes which arise 
In each event, I gather : not the sting 
Which retributive memory implants 



QUEEN MAB. 



19 



In the hard bosom of the selfish man ; 
Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb 
Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up 
The thoughts and actions of a wrell-spent day, 
Are unforeseen, unregistered by me: 
And it is yet permitted me, to rend 
The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, 
Clothed in its changeless purity, may know 
How soonest to accomplish the great end 
For which it hath its being, and may taste 
That peace, which in the end all life will share. 
This is the meed of virtue ; happy Soul 
Ascend the car with nre ! 
The chains of earth's immurement 
Fell from lanthe's spirit ; 
They shrank and brake like bandages of straw, 
Beneath a waken'd giant's strength. 
She knew her glorious change, 
And felt, in apprehension uncontroU'd 

New raptures opening round : 
Each day-dream of her mortal life, 
Each frenzied vision of the slumbers 
That closed each well-spent day, 
Seem'd now to meet reality. 

The Fairy and the Soul proceeded ; 
The silver clouds disparted ; 
And as the car of magic they ascended. 
Again the speechless music swell'd. 
Again the coursers of the air 
Unfurl'd their azure pennons, and the Queen, 
Shaking the beamy reins, 
Bade them pursue their way. 

The magic car moved on. 
The night was fair, and countless stars 
Studded heaven's dark-blue vault, — 

Just o'er the eastern wave 
Peeped the first faint smile of morn : — 
The magic car moved on — 
From the celestial hoofs 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew. 

And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountains loftiest peak, 
Was traced a line of lightning. 
Now it flew far above a rock, 
The utmost verge of earth, 
The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow 
Lower'd o'er the silver sea. 
Far, far below the chariot's path, 
Calm as a slumbering babe, 
Tremendous Ocean lay. 
The mirror of its stillness show'd 
The pale and waning stars. 
The chariot's fiery track. 
And the gray light of mom 
Tinging those fleecy clouds 
That canopied the dawn. 
Seem'd it, that the chariot's way 
Lay through the midst of an immense concave. 
Radiant with million constellations, tinged 
With shades of infinite colour, 
And semicircled with a belt 
Flashing incessant meteors. 
The magic car moved on. 
As they approach'd their goal 



The coursers seem'd to gather speed ; 
The sea no longer was distinguish'd ; earth 
Appear'd a vast and shadowy sphere ; 
The sun's unclouded orb 
Roll'd through the black concave ; 
Its rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter course, 
And fell, like ocean's feathery spray 
Dash'd from the boiling surge 
Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appear'd 
The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven; 
Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems roll'd. 
And countless spheres diffused 
An ever- varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder ; some 
Were horned like the crescent moon ; 
Some shed a mild and silver beam 
Like Hesperus o'er the western sea ; 
Some dash'd athwart with trains of flame, 
Like worlds to death and ruin driven ; 
Some shone like suns, and as the chariot pass'd 
Eclipsed all other light. 

Spirit of Nature, here ! 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose immensity 

E'en soaring fancy staggers, — 
Here is thy fitting temple. 
Yet not the lightest leaf 
That quivers to the passing breeze 
Is less instinct with thee ; 
Yet not the meanest worm 
That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead, 
Less shares thy eternal breath. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou, 
Imperishable as this scene, — 
Here is thy fitting temple ! 



n. 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
To the wild ocean's* echoing shore. 

And thou hast linger'd there 

Until the sun's broad orb 
Seem'd resting on the burnish'd wave, 

Thou must have mark'd the fines 
Of purple gold, that motionless 

Hung o'er the sinking sphere : 
Thou must have mark'd the billowy clouds 
Edged with intolerable radiancy. 

Towering like rocks of jet 

Crown'd with a diamond wreath. 

And yet there is a moment 

When the sun's highest point 
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, 
When those far clouds of feathery gold. 
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam 
Like islands on a dark-blue sea ; 
Then has thy fancy soar'd above the earth, 

And furl'd its wearied wing 

Within the Fairy's fane. 



20 



QUEEN MAB. 



Yet not the golden islands, 
Gleaming in yon flood of liglit, 

Nor the feathery oirtains 
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, 
Nor the burnish'd ocean-waves, 
Paving that gorgeous dome, 
So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As Mab's ethereal palace couM afford. 
Yet hkest evening's vault, that fairy Hall ! 
As Heaven, low rcsfing on tlie wave, it spread 
Its floors of flashing light, 
Its -vast and azure dome, 
Its fertile golden islands 
Floating on a silver sea ; 
Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted 
Through clouds of circumambient darkness, 
And pearly battlements around 
Look'd o'er the immense of Heaven. 

The magic car no longer moved. 
The Fairy and the Spirit 
Entered the Hail of Spells : 
Tliose golden clouds 
That roh'd in glittering billows 
Beneath the azure canopy, 
With the ethereal footsteps trembled not : 

The light and crimson mists, 
Floating to strains of thrilling melody 
Through that unearthly dwelling, 
Yielded to every movement of the will. 
Upon their passive swell the Spirit lean'd, 
And, for the varied bliss that press'd around. 
Used not the glorious privilege 
Of virtue and of wisdom. 

Spirit ! the Fairy said, 
And pointed to the gorgeous dome, — 

This is a wondrous sight, 
And mocks all human grandeur ; 
But, were it virtue's only meed, to dwell 
In a celestial palace, all resign'd 
To pleasurable impulses, immured 
Within the prison of itself, the will 
Of changeless nature would be xinfulfiU'd. 
Learn to make others happy. Spirit, come ! 
This is thine high reward : — the past shall rise ; 
Thou shalt behold the present ; I will teach 

The secrets of the future. 

The Fairy and the Spirit 
Approach'd the overhanging battlement.— 
Below lay stretch'd the universe ! 
There, far as the remotest line 
That bounds imagination's flight, 

Countless and unending orbs 
In mazy motion intermingled, 
Yet still fulfill'd immutably 
Eternal Nature's law. 
Above, below, around 
The circling systems form'd 
A wilderness of harmony ; 
Each with undeviating aim, 
In eloquent silence, through the depths of space 
Pursued its wondrous way. 
There was a httle light ' 
That twinkled in the misty distance: 
None but a spirit's eye 



Might ken that rolling orb ; 

None but a spirit's eye. 

And in no other place 
But that celestial dwelling, might behold 
Each action of this earth's inhabitants. 

But matter, space, and time, 
In those aerial mansions cease to act ; 
And -all-prevailing wisdom, when it reaps 
The harvest of its excellence, o'erbounds 
Those obstacles, of which an earthly soul 
Fears to attempt the conquest. 

The Fairy pointed to tlie earth. 
The Spirit's intellectual eye 
Its kindred beings recognised. 
The thronging thousands, to a passing view, 
Seem'd like an ant-hill's citizens. 
How wonderful ! that even 
The passions, prejudices, interests, 
That sway the meanest being, the weak touch 
That moves the finest nerve, 
And in one human brain 
Causes the faintest thought, becomes a Ihik 
Li the great chain of nature. 

Behold, the Fairy cried. 
Palmyra's ruin'd palaces I — 

Beliold I where grandeur frown'd ; 

Behold ! where pleasure smiled ; 
What now remains ?— the memory 

Of senselessness and shame — 

What is immortal there 1 

Nothing — it stands to tell 

A melancholy tale, to give 

An awful warning : soon 
Oblivion will steal silently 

The remnant of its fame. 

Monarchs and conquerors there 
Proud o'er prostrate millions trod — 
The earthquakes of the human race, — 
Like them, forgotten when the ruin 

That marks their shock is past. 

Beside the eternal Nile 
The Pyramids have risen. 
Nile shall pursue his changeless way ; 

Those Pyramids shall fall ; 
Yea ! not a stone shall stand to tell 
The spot whereon they stood ; 
Their very site shall be forgotten. 
As is their builder's name ! 
Behold yon sterile spot, 
Where now the wandering Arab's tent 

Flaps in the desert-blast ! 
There once old Salem's haughty fane 
Rear'd high to heaven its thousand golden domes, 
And in the blushing face of day 
Exposed its shameful glory. 
Oh ! many a widow, many an orphan cursed 
The building of that fane ; and many a father, 
Worn out with toil and slavery, implored 
The poor man's God to sweep it from the earth. 
And spare his children the detested task 
Of piling stone on stone, and poisoning 
The choicest days of life. 
To soothe a dotard's vanity. 
There an inhuman and uncultured race 



QUEEN MAB. 



21 



Howl'J hideous praises to their Demon-God ; 
They rush'd to war, tore from the mother's womb 
The unborn child, — old age and infancy 
Promiscuous perish'd ; their victorious arms 
Left not a soul to breathe. Oh ! they were fiends : 
But what was he who taught them that the God 
Of nature and benevolence had given 
A special sanction to the trade of blood 1 
His name and theirs are fading, and the tales 
Of this barbarian nation, which imposture 
Recites till terror credits, are pursuing 
Itself into forgetfulness. 

Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta stood, 
There is a moral desert now : 
The mean and miserable huts. 
The yet more wretched palaces. 
Contrasted with those ancient fanes. 
Now crumbling to oblivion ; 
The long and lonely colonnades 
Through which the ghost of Freedom stalks 

Seem like a well-known tune, 
Which, in some dear scene we have loved to hear, 

Remember'd now in sadness. 

But, oh ! how much more changed 

How gloomier is the contrast 

Of human nature there ! 
Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's slave, 
A coward and a fool, spreads death around — 

Then, shuddering, meets his own. 
Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, 
A cowl'd and hypocritical monk 

Prays, cuises, and deceives. 

Spirit ! ten thousand years 
Have scarcely pass'd away. 
Since, in the waste where now the savage drinks 
His enemy's blood, and aping Europe's sons. 
Wakes the unholy song of war, 
Arose a stately city. 
Metropolis of the western continent : 

There, now, the mossy column-stone, 
Indented by time's unrelaxing grasp, 
Which once appear'd to brave 
All, save its country's ruin ; 
There the wide forest scene, 
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness 

Of gardens long run wild, 
Seems, to the unwilling sojourner, whose steps 

Chance in that desert has delay'd, 
Thus to have stood smce earth was what it is. 

Yet once it was the busiest haunt. 
Whither, as to a common centre, flock'd 
Strangers, and ships, and merchantlise : 
Once peace and freedom blest 
The cultivated plain : 
But wealth, that curse of man. 
Blighted the bud of its prosperity : 
Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty, 
Fled ; to return not, until man shall know 
That they alone can give the bliss 

Worthy a soul that claims 
Its kindred vnih eternity. 

There's not one atom of yon earth 

But once was living man ; 
Nor the minutest drop of rain 



That hangeth in its thinnest cloud. 
But fiow'd in human veins: 
And from the burning plains 
Where Lybian monsters yell, 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless clime, 
To where the golden fields 
Of fertile England spread 
Their harvest to the day. 
Thou canst not find one spot 
Whereon no city stood. 
How strange is human pride ! 
I tell thee that those living things, 
To whom the fragile blade of grass, 
That springeth in the morn 
And perisheth ere noon, 
Is an unbounded world ; 
I tell thee that those viewless beings, 
Whose mansion is the smallest particle 
Of the impassive atmosphere. 
Think, feel, and live like man ; 
That their afiections and antipathies, 
Like his, produce the laws 
Ruling their moral state ; 
And the minutest throb 
That through their frame diffuses 
The slightest, faintest motion, 
Is fixed and indispensable 
As the majestic laws 
That rule yon rolling orbs. 

The Fairy paused. The Spirit, 
In ecstasy of admiration, felt 
All knowledge of the past revived ; the events 

Of old and wondrous times, 
Which dim tradition intaruptedly 
Teaches the credulous vulgar, were imfolded 
In just perspective to the view ; 
Yet dim from their infinitude. 
The Spirit seem'd to stand 
High on an isolated pinnacle ; 
The flood of ages combating below 
The depth of the unbounded universe 
Above, and all around 
Nature's unchanging harmony. 



IIL 

Fairy ! the Spirit said, 

And on the Queen of Spells 

Fix'd her ethereal ej'es, 
I thank thee. Thou hast given 
A boon which I will not resign, and taught 
A lesson not to be unlearn'd. I know 
The past, and thence I will essay to glean 
A warning for the future, so that man 
May profit by his errors, and derive 

Experience from his folly : 
For, when the power of imparting joy 
Is equal to the will, the human soul 

Requires no other heaven. 

MAB. 

Turn thee, surpassing Sphit ! 
Much yet remains unscann'd. 
Thou knowest how great is man, 



22 



QUEEN MAB. 



Thou knowest his imbecility : 
Yet learn thou what he is ; 
Yet learn the lofty destiny 
Which restless Time prepares 
For every living soul. 

Behold a gorgeous palace, that, amid 

Yon populous city, rears its thousand towers 

And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops 

Of sentinels, in stern and silent ranks, 

Encompass it around ; the dweller there 

Cannot be free and happy ; hearest thou not 

The curses of the fatherless, the groans 

Of those who have no friend ] He passes on : 

The King, the wearer of a gilded chain 

That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool 

Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave 

Even to the basest appetites — that man 

Heeds not the shriek of penury ; he smiles 

At the deep curses which the destitute 

Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy 

Pervades his bloodless heart when thousands groan 

But for those morsels which his wantonness 

Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save 

All that they love from famine : when he hears 

The tale of hoiTor, to some ready-made face 

Of hypocritical assent he turns. 

Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite of him, 

Flushes his bloated cheek. 

Now to the meal 
Of silence, grandeur, and excess, he drags 
His palled unwilling appetite. If gold. 
Gleaming around, and numerous viands culled 
From every clime, could force the loathing sense 
To overcome satiet}^ — if wealth 
The spring it draws from poisons not, — or vice, 
Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not 
Its food to deadliest venom ; then that king 
Is happy ; and the peasant who fulfils 
His unforced task, when he returns at even, 
And by the blazing fagot meets again 
Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped, 
Tastes not a sweeter meal. 

Behold him now 
Stretched on the gorgeous couch; his fevered brain 
Keels dizzily awhile : but ah ! too soon 
The slumber of intemperance subsides, 
And conscience, that undying serpent, calls 
Her venomous brood to their nocturnal task. 
Listen ! he speaks ! oh ! mark that frenzied eye — 
Oh ! mark that deadly visage. 



No cessation ! 
Oh ! must this last for ever ] Awful death, 
I wish yet fear to clasp thee ! Not one moment 
Of dreamless sleep ! O dear and blessed peace ! 
Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity 
In penury and dungeons ! wherefore lurkest 
With danger, death, and solitude : yet shunn'st 
The palace I have built thee ! Sacred peace ! 
Oh xdsit me but once, and pitying shed 
One drop of balm upon my withered soul. 

Vain man ! that palace is the virtuous heart, 
And peace defileth not her snowy robes 



In such a shed as thine. Hark ! yet he mutters ; 

His slumbers are but varied agonies. 

They prey like scorpions on the springs of life. 

There needeth not the hell that bigots Irame 

To punish those who err : earth in itself 

Contains at once the evil and the cure ; 

And all-sutficing nature can chastise 

Those who transgress her law, — she only knows 

How justly to proportion to the fault 

The punishment it merits. 

Is it strange 
That this poor wretch should pride him in his wol 
Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug 
The scorpion that consumes him 1 Is it strange 
That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns, 
Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured 
Within a splendid prison, whose stern bounds 
Shut him from all that's good or dear on earth. 
His soul asserts not its humanity ? 
That man's mild nature rises not in war 
Against a king's employ T No — 'tis not strange ! 
He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts and lives 
Just as his father did ; the unconquered powers 
Of precedent and custom interpose 
Between a king and virtue. Stranger yet, 
To those who know not nature, nor deduce 
The future from the present, it may seem, 
That not one slave, who suffers from the crimes 
Of this unnatural being ; not one wretch. 
Whose children famish, and whose nuptial bed 
Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm 
To dash him from his throne ! 

Those gilded ffies 
That, basking in the sunshine of a court. 
Fatten on its corruption ! — what are they ? 
— The drones of the community ; they feed 
On the mechanic's labour ; the starved hind 
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield 
Its unshared harvests ; and yon squalid form, 
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes 
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine. 
Drags out in labour a protracted death. 
To glut their grandeur ; many faint with toil. 
That few may know the cares and wo of sloth. 
Whence, think'st thou, kings and parasites arose T 
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap 
Toil and unvanquishable penury 
On those who build their palaces, and bring [vice ; 
Their daily bread 1 — From vice, black, loathsome 
From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong ; 
From all that genders misery, and makes 
Of earth this thorny wilderness ; from lust, 
Revenge, and murder. — And when reason's voice, 
Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked 
The nations ; and mankind perceive that vice 
Is discord, war, and misery ; that virtiie 
Is peace, and happiness, and harmony ; 
When man's maturer nature shall disdain 
The playthings of its childhood ; — kingly glare 
Will lose its power to dazzle ; its authority 
Will silently pass by ; the gorgeous throne 
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall, 
Fast falling to decay ; whilst falsehood's tJade 
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable 
As that of truth is now. 



QUEEN MAB. 



23 



Where is the fame 
Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth 
Seek to eternize ] Oh ! the faintest sound 
From time's hght foot-fall, the minutest wave 
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing 
The unsubstantial bubble. Ay ! to-day 
Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze 
That flashes desolation, strong the arm 
That scatters multitudes. To-moiTow comes ! 
That mandate is a thunder-peal that died 
In ages past ; that gaze, a transient flash 
On which the midnight closed, and on that arm 
The worm has made his meal. 

The virtuous man 
Who, great in his humility, as kings 
Are little in their grandeur ; he who leads 
Invincibly a life of resolute good. 
And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths 
More free and fearless than the trembling judge, 
Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove 
To bind the impassive spirit ; — when he falls, 
His mild eye beams benevolence no more : 
Wither'd the hand outstretch'd but to relieve ; 
Sunk reason's simple eloquence, that rull'd 
But to appal the guilty. Yes! the grave [frost 
Hath quench'd that eye, and death's relentless 
Wither'd that arm : but the unfading fame 
Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb ; 
The deathless memory of that man, whom kings 
Call to their mind and tremble ; the remembrance 
With which the happy spirit contemplates 
Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, 
Shall never pass away. 

Nature rejects the monarch, not the man ; 
The subject, not the citizen : for kings 
And subjects, mutual foes, for ever play 
A losing game into each other's hands. 
Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man 
Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. 
Power, like a desolating pestilence, 
Pollutes whate'er it touches ; and obedience, 
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth. 
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame 
A mechanized automaton. 

When Nero, 
High over flaming Rome, with savage joy 
Lower'd like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear 
The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld 
The frightful desolation spread, and felt 
A new-created sense within his soul 
Thrill to the sight, and vibrate to the sound ; 
Thinkest thou his grandeur had not overcome 
The force of human kindness] and, when Rome, 
With one stem blow, hurl'd not the tyrant down, 
Orush'd not the arm, red with her dearest blood, 
Had not submissive abjectness destroy'd 
Nature's suggestions ] 

Look on yonder earth : 
The golden harvests spring ; the unfailing sun 
Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the 
Arise in due succession ; all things speak [trees, 
Peace, harmony, and love. The universe, 
In nature's silent eloquence, declares 
That all fulfil the works of love and joy, — 



All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates 
The sword which stabs his peace ; he cherisheth 
The snakes that gnaw his heart ; he raiseth up 
The tyrant, whose delight is in his wo, 
Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, 
Lights it the great alone 1 Yon silver beams, 
Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch, 
Than on the dome of kings'? Is mother earth 
A step-dame to her numerous sons, who earn 
Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil ; 
A mother only to those puling babes 
Who, nursed in ease and luxuiy, make men 
The playthings of their babyhood, and mar, 
In self-important childishness, that peace 
Which men alone appreciate 1 

Spirit of Nature ! no ! 
The pure diftusion of thy essence throbs 
Alike in every human heart. 

Thou, aye, erectest there 
Thy throne of power unappealable : 
Thou art the judge beneath whose nod 
Man's brief and frail authority 

Is powerless as the wind 

That passeth idly by. 
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth 
The show of human justice, 

As God surpasses man. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou, 
Life of interminable multitudes ; 
Soul of those mighty spheres 
Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep 
Soul of that smallest being, [silence he ; 

The dwelling of whose Hfe 
Is one faint April sun-gleam ; — 
Man, like these passive things, 
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth : 
Like theirs, his age of endless peace. 
Which time is fast maturing, 
Will swiftly, surely come ; 
And the unbounded frame, which tJiou pervadest, 
Will be without a flaw. 
Marring its perfect symmetry. 



IV. 

How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear. 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon 
Studded with stars unutterably bright, [vault. 

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 
Seems like a canopy which love has spread [rolls, 
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle liills, 
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend. 
So stainless that their white and glittering spires 
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, 
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it 
A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene 
Where musing solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthhness ; 
Where silence undisturb'd might watch alone. 
So cold, so bright, so stUl. 



24 



QUEEN MAB. 



The orb of day, 
In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field 
Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath 
Steals o'er the unruffled deep; the clouds of eve 
Reflect unmoved the hngering beam of day ; 
And vesper's image on the western main 
Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes: 
Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, 
Roll o'er the blacken'd waters; the deep roar 
Of distant thunder mutters awfully; 
Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom 
That shrouds the boihng surge ; the pitiless fiend. 
With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ; 
The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a grave 
Beneath its jagged gulf. 

Ah ! whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven ! — that dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon 1 The stars are quenched 
In darkness, and the pure and spanghng snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers 

round. 
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains ring, 
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar 
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout. 
The ceaseless clangour, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage : — loud, and more loud 
The discord grows ; till pale death shuts the scene, 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquer'd draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there 
In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts 
That beat with anxious life at sun-set there ; 
How few survive, how few are beating now ! 
All is deep silence, lilce the fearful cabn 
That' slumbers in the stonn's portentous pause; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray mom 
Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous 
Before the icy wind Aow rolls away, [smoke 

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered anns, 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful 
Of the outsallying victors: far behind, [path 

Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
Each tree which guards its darkness firom the day. 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 

I see thee shrinli. 
Surpassing spirit ! — wert thou human else 1 
I see a shade of doubt and hoiTor fleet 
Across thy stainless features: yet fear not 
This is no unconnected misery. 
Nor stands uncaused, and irretrievable. 
Man's evil nature, that apology [set up 

Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, 
For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood 



Which desolates the discord-wasted land. 
From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose, 
Whose safety is man's deep unbcttered wo, 
Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the axe 
Strike at the root, the poison tree vyill fall ; 
And where its venomed exhalations spread 
Ruin, and death, and wo, where millions lay 
Quenching the serpent's famine, and their bones 
Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast, 
A garden shall arise, in loveliness 
Surpassing fabled Eden. 

Hath Nature's soul, 
That formed this world so beautiful, that spread 
Earth's lap with plenty, and life's smallest chord, 
Strung to unchanging unison, that gave 
The happy birds their dwelling in the grove, 
That yielded to the wanderers of the deep 
The lovely silence of the unfathomed main, 
And filled the meanest worm that crawls in dust 
With spirit, thought, and love; on Man alone 
Partial in causeless malice, wantonly 
Heap'd ruin, vice, and slavery ; his soul 
Blasted with withering curses; placed afar 
The meteor happiness, that shuns his graspj 
But serving on the fi-ightful gulf to glare, 
Rent wide beneath his footsteps'? 

Nature ! — no ! 
Kings, priests, and statesmen blast the human 

flower, 
Even in its tender bud; their influence darts 
Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins 
Of desolate society. The child. 
Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred name. 
Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts 
His baby-sword even in a hero's mood. 
This infant arm becomes the bloodiest scourge 
Of devastated earth; whilst specious names 
Learnt in soft childhood's unsuspecting hour. 
Serve as the sophisms with which manhood tlims 
Bright reason's ray, and sanctifies the sword 
Upraised to shed a brother's innocent blood. 
Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaun that man 
Inherits vice and misery, when force 
And falsehood hang even o'er the cradled babe, 
Stifling with rudest gi-asp all natural good. 

Ah ! to the stranger-soul, when first it peeps 
From its new tenement, and looks abroad 
For happiness and sympathy, how stern 
And desolate a tract is this wide world! 
How withered all the buds of natural good! 
No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms 
Of pitiless power ! On its wretched frame, 
Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and wo 
Heaped on the wretched parent, whence it sprung, 
By morals, law, and custom, the pure winds 
Of heaven, that renovate the insect tribes, 
May breathe not. The untainting light of day 
May visit not its longings. It is bound 
Ere it has life: yea, all the chains are forged 
Long ere its being : all liberty and love 
And peace is torn from its defencelessness ; 
Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle doomed 
To abjectness and bondage ! 
Throughout this varied and eternal world 



QUEEN MAB. 



25 



Soul is the only element, the block 

That for uncounted ages has remained. 

The moveless pillar of a mountain's weight 

Is active living spirit. Every grain 

Is sentient both in unity and part, 

And the minutest atom comprehends 

A world of loves and hatreds ; these beget 

Evil and good: hence truth and falsehood spring; 

Hence will, and thought, and action, all the germs 

Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate, 

That variegate the eternal universe. 

Soul is not more polluted than the beams 

Of heaven's pure orb, ere round their rapid lines 

The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise. 

Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds 

Of high resolve ; on fancy's boldest wing 

To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn 

The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste 

The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield. 

Or he is formed for abjectness and wo, 

To grovel on the dunghill of his fears. 

To shrink at eveiy sound, to quench the flame 

Of natiu-al love in sensualism, to know 

That hour as blest when on his worthless days 

The frozen hand of death shall set its seal. 

Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. 

The one is man that shall hereafter be ; 

The other, man as \dce has made him now. 

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, 
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade. 
And, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones 
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore. 
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. 
Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround 
Their palaces, participate the crimes 
That force defends, and from a nation's rage 
Secure the crown, which all the curses reach 
That famine, frenzy, wo and penury breathe. 
These are the hired bravoes who defend 
The tyrant's throne — the bullies of his fear : 
These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, 
The refuge of society, the dregs 
Of all that is most vile : their cold hearts blend 
Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride, 
All that is mean and villanous, with rage 
Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt, 
Alone might kindle ; they are decked in wealth. 
Honour and power, then are sent abroad 
To do their work. The pestilence that stalks 
In gloomy triumph through some Eastern land 
Is less destroying. They cajole with gold. 
And promises of fame, the thoughtless youth 
Already crushed with servitude : he knows 
His wretchedness too late, and cherishes 
Repentance for his ruin, when his doom 
Is sealed in gold and blood ! 
Those too the tyrant serve, who skilled to snare 
The feet of justice in the toils of law. 
Stand, ready to oppress the weaker still ; 
And, right or wrong, will vindicate for gold, 
Sneering at public virtue, which beneath 
Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled, where 
Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth. 

'; Then grave and boaiy-headed hypocrites, 

4 



Without a hope, a passion, or a love. 
Who, through a life of luxury and lies. 
Have crept by flattery to the seats of power, 
Support the system whence their honours flow — • 
They have three words; well tyrants know their 

use, 
Well pay them for the loan, with usury 
Torn fi-om a bleeding world !^ — God, Hell and 

Heaven. 
A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty fiend, 
Whose mercy is a nickname for the rage 
Of tameless tigers hungering for blood. 
Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire. 
Where poisonous and undying worms prolong 
Eternal misery to those hapless slaves 
Whose life has been a penance for its crimes. 
And heaven, a meed for those who dare belie 
Their human nature, quake, believe, and cringe 
Before the mockeries of earthly power. 

These tools the tyrant tempers to his work, 
Wields in his wrath, and as he wills, destroys, 
Omnipotent in wickedness : the while 
Youth springs, age moulders, manhood tamely does 
His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys to lend 
Force to the weakness of his trembling arm. 

They rise, they fall ; one generation comes 
Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. 
It fades, another blossoms : yet behold ! 
Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its bloQm, 
Withering and cankering deep its passive prime. 
He has invented lying words and modes. 
Empty and vain as his own coreless heart ; 
Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound. 
To lure the heedless victim to the toils 
Spread round the valley of its paradise. 

Look to thyself, priest, conqueror, or prince ! 
Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy lusts 
Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor. 
With whom thy master was : — or thou delight'st 
In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain. 
All misery weighing nothing in the scale 
Against thy short-lived fame : or thou dost load 
With cowardice and crime the groaning land, 
A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self! 
Ay, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er 
Crawled on the loathing earth 1 Are not thy days 
Days of unsatisfying listlcssness 1 
Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is o'er. 
When will the morning come 1 Is not thy youth 
A vain and feverish dream of sensualism 1 
Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease 1 
Are not thy views of unrcgTctted death 
Drear, comfortless, and horrible ■? Thy mind. 
Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame. 
Incapable of judgment, hope, or love 1 
And dost thou wish the errors to survive 
That bar thee from all sympathies of good. 
After the miserable interest 

Thou hokl'st in their protraction 1 When the grave 
Has swallowed up thy memory and thyself. 
Dost thou desire the bane that poisons earth 
To twine its roots around thy coffined clay. 
Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy tomb, 
That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die 1 



26 



QUEEN MAB. 



Thus do the generations of the earth 

Go to the grave, and issue from the womb, 

Surviving still the imperishable change 

That renovates the world ; even as the leaves 

Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year 

Has scattered on the forest soil, and heaped 

For many seasons there, though long they choke 

Loading with loathsome rottenness the land, 

All germs of promise. Yet when the tall trees 

From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes, 

Lie level with the earth to moiilder there, 

They fertilize the land they long deformed, 

Till from the breathing lawn a forest springs 

Of youth, integrity, and loveliness, 

LOve that which gave it life, to spring and die. 

Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights 

The fairest feelings of the opening heart, 

Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil 

Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love. 

And judgment cease to wage unnatural war 

With passion's unsubduable array. 

Twin-sister of religion, selfishness ! 

Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all 

The wanton hon-ors of her bloody play ; 

Yet frozen, unimpassioncd, spiritless. 

Shunning the light, and owning not its name : 

Compelled, by its deformity, to screen 

With flimsy veil of justice and of right. 

Its unattractive lineaments, that scare 

All, save the brood of ignorance : at once 

The cause and the effect of tyranny ; 

Unblushing, hardened, sensual, and vile ; 

Dead to all love but of its ahjectness. 

With heart impassive by more noble powers 

Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, or fame ; 

Despising its own miserable being. 

Which still it longs, yet fears, to disenthrall. 

Hence commerce springs, the venal interchange 

Of all that human art or nature yield ; 

Which wealth should purchase not, but want 

And natural kindness hasten to supply [demand, 

From the full fountain of its boundless love. 

For ever stifled, drained, and tainted now. 

Commerce ! beneath whose poison-breathing shade 

No solitary virtue dares to spring ; 

But poverty and wealth with equal hand 

Scatter their withering curses, and unfold 

Tlie doors of premature and violent death. 

To pining famine and full-fed disease, 

To all that shares the lot of human life, [chain 

Which poisoned body and soul, scarce drags the 

That lengthens as it goes and clanks behind. 

Commerce has set the mark of selfishness, 

The signet of its all-enslaving power. 

Upon a shining ore, and called it gold : 

Before whose image bow the viilgar great. 

The vainly rich, the miserable proud. 

The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings. 

And with blind feelings reverence the power 

That grinds them to the dust of misery. 

But in the temple of their hireling hearts 

Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn 

All earthly things but virtue. 



Since tyrants, by the sale of human life. 

Heap luxmies to their sensualism, and fame 

To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride. 

Success has sanctioned to a credulous world 

The ruin, the disgrace, the wo of war. 

His hosts of bhnd and unresisting dupes 

The despot numbers ; fi-om his cabinet 

These puppets of his schemes he moves at will. 

Even as the slaves by force or famine driven 

Beneath a vulgar master, to perform 

A task of cold and brutal drudgery ; — 

Hardened to hope, insensible to feai-. 

Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine, 

Mere wheels of work and articles of trade, 

That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth ! 

The harmony and happiness of man 

Yield to the wealth of nations ; that which lifts 

His nature to the heaven of its pride. 

Is bartered for the poison of his soul ; 

The weight that drags to earth his towering hopes. 

Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain, 

Withering all passion but of slavish fear, 

Extinguishing all free and generous love 

Of entei-prise and daring, even the pulse 

That fancy Idndles in the beating heart 

To mingle with sensation, it destroys, — 

Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self, 

The grovelling hope of interest and gold, 

Unquahfied, unmingled, unredeemed 

Even by hypocrisy. 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! The wordy eloquence that lives 
After the ruin of their hearts, can gild 
The bitter poison of a nation's wo. 
Can turn the worship of the ser\'ile mob 
To their corrupt and glaring idol. Fame, 
From Virtue, trampled by its iron tread, 
Altliough its dazzling pedestal be raised 
Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field. 
With desolated dwellings smoking round. 
The man of case, who, by his warm fireside, 
To deeds of charitable intercourse 
And bare fulfilment of the common laws 
Of decency and prejudice, confines 
The struggling nature of his human heai't. 
Is duped by their cold sophistry ; he sheds 
A passing tear perchance upon the wreck 
Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's door 
The frightful waves are driven, — ^whcn his son 
Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion 
Drives his vsafe raving mad. But the poor man. 
Whose life is misery, and fear, and care ; 
Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil ; 
Who ever hears his famished offspring's scream, 
Whom their pale mother's uncomplaining gaze 
For ever meets, and the proud rich man's eye 
Flashing command, and tlie heart brealcing scene 
Of thousands like himself; he little heeds 
The rhetoric of tyranny, his hate 
Is quenchless as his wrongs, he laughs to scorn 
The vain and bitter mockery of words, 
Feehng the horror of the tyrant's deeds. 
And unrestrained but liy the arm of power. 
That knows and dreads his enmity. 



QUEEN MAB. 



27 



The iron rod of penury still compels 

Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth. 

And poison, with unprofitable toil, 

A life too void of solace to confirm 

The very chains that bind him to his doom. 

Nature, impartial in munificence, 

Has gifted man with all-subduing will : 

Matter, with all its transitory shapes. 

Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, 

That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread. 

How many a rustic Milton has passed by, 

Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, 

In unremitting drudgery and care ! 

How many a vulgar Cato has compelled 

His energies, no longer tameless then, 

To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail ! 

How many a Newton, to whose passive ken 

Those mighty spheres that gem infinity 

Were only specks of tinsel, fixed in heaven 

To light the midnights of his native town ! 

Yet every heart contains perfection's germ : 
The wisest of the sages of the earth, 
That ever from the stores of reason drew 
Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless tone. 
Were but a weak and inexperienced boy. 
Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued 
With pure desire and universal love, 
Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain, 
Untainted passion, elevated will. 
Which death (who even would Imger long in awe 
Within his noble presence, and beneath 
His changeless eye-beam,) might alone subdue. 
Him, every slave now dragging through the filth 
Of some corrupted city his sad life, 
Pining with famine, swoln with luxury, 
Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense 
With narrow schemings and unworthy cares, 
Or madly rushing through all violent crime. 
To move the deep stagnation of his soul, — • 
Might imitate and equal. 

But mean lust 
Has bound its chains so tight about the earth, 
That all within it but the virtuous man 
Is venal : gold or fame will surely reach 
The price prefixed by selfishness, to all 
But him of resolute and unchanging will ; 
Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile crowd, 
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, 
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul 
To tyranny or falsehood, though they wield 
With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world. 

All things are sold : the very light of heaven 

Is venal ; eai'th's unsparing gifts of love, 

The smallest and most despicable things 

That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 

All objects of our life, even life itself. 

And the poor pittance which the laws allow 

Of liberty, the fellowship of man. 

Those duties which his heart of human love 

Should urge him to perform instinctively. 

Are bought and sold as in a public mart 

Of undisguising selfishness, that sets 

On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign. 

Even love is sold ; the solace of all wo 



Is turned to deadliest agony, old age, 

Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms, 

And youth's corrupted impulses prepare 

A life of hoiTor from the blighting bane 

Of commerce : whilst the pestilence that springs 

From unenjoying sensualism, has filled 

All human Hfe with hydra-headed woes. 

Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs 
Of outraged conscience ; for the slavish priest 
Sets no great value on his hireling faith : 
A little passing pomp, some servile souls, 
Whom cowardice itself might safely chain, 
Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe 
To deck the triumph of their languid zeal, 
Can make him minister to tyranny. 
More daring crime requires a loftier meed : 
Without a shudder the slave-soldier lends 
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart. 
When the dread eloquence of dying men, 
Low mingling on the lonely field of fame, 
Assails that nature whose applause he sells 
For the gross blessings of the patriot mob, 
For the vile gratitude of heartless kings, 
And for a cold world's good word, — ^viler still ! 

There is a nobler glory which survives 

Until our being fades, and, solacing 

All human care, accompanies its change ; 

Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's gloom, 

And, in the precincts of the palace, guides 

Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime ; 

Imbues his lineaments with dauntlessness, 

Even when, from power's avenging hand, he takes 

Its sweetest, last and noblest title-^eath ; 

— The consciousness of good, which neither gold, 

Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly bliss. 

Can purchase ; but a life of resolute good. 

Unalterable will, quenchless desne 

Of universal happiness, the heart 

That beats with it in unison, the brain, 

Whose ever-wakeful wisdom toils to change 

Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal. 

This commerce of sincerest virtue needs 
No mediative signs of selfishness, 
No jealous intercourse of wretched gain, 
No balancings of prudence, cold and long ; 
In just and equal measure all is weighed, 
One scale contains the sum of human weal, 
And one, the good man's heart. 

How vainly seek 
The selfish for that happiness denied 
To aught but virtue ! Blind and hardened, they 
Who hope for peace amid the storms of care. 
Who covet power they know not how to use, 
And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give : — • 
Madly they frustrate still their own designs ; 
And, where they hoped that quiet to enjoy 
Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul. 
Pining regrets, and vain repentances, 
Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade 
Their valueless and miserable lives. 

But hoary-hcaded selfishness has felt 

Its death-blow, and is tottering to the grave : 

A brighter morn awaits the human day, 



28 



QUEEN MAB. 



When every transfer of earth's natural gifts 
Shall be a commerce of good words and works ; 
When poverty and wealth, the thirst of fame, 
The fear of infamy, disease, and wo, 
War with its million horrors, and fierce hell, 
Shall live but in the memory of time. 
Who, like a penitent libertine shall start, 
Look back, and shudder at his younger years. 



VI. 
Ali. touch, all eye, all car, 
The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech. 

O'er the thin texture of its frame, 
The varying periods painted, changing glows ; 

. As on a s-ummer even. 
When soul-enfolding music floats around, 
The stainless mirror of the lake 
Re-images the eastern gloom, 
Mingling convulsively its purple hues • 
With sunset's burnished gold. 

Then thus the Spirit spoke : 
It is a wild and miserable world ! 

Thorny and full of care. 
Which every fiend can make his prey at will. 
O Fairy ! in the lapse of years, 
Is there no hope in store 1 
Will yon vast suns roll jn 
Interminally, still illuming 
The night of so many wi'etched souls, 
And see no hope for them 1 
Will not the universal Spirit e'er 
Revivify this withered limb of Heaven 1 

The Fairy calmly smiled 
In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope 

Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 
Oh ! rest thee tranquil ; chase those fearful doubts. 
Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul. 
That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. 
Yes ! crime and misery are in yonder earth, 

Falsehood, mistake, and lust; 

But the eternal world 
Contains at once the evil and the cure. 
Some eminent in virtue shall start up. 

Even in perversest time : 
The truths of their pure lips, that never die. 
Shall bind the scorpion folsehood with a wreath 

Of ever-living flame. 
Until the monster sting itself to death. 

How sweet a scene will earth become ! 
Of purest spirits, a pure dwelling-place, 
Symphonious with the planetary spheres ; 
When man, with changeless nature coalescing. 
Will undertake regeneration's work. 
When its ungcnial poles no longer point 
To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there. 

Spirit, on yonder earth. 
Falsehood now triumphs ; deadly power 
Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth ! 

Madness and miseiy are there ! 
The happiest is most wretched ! Yet confide 



Until pure health-drops, from the cup of joy 
Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. 
Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn. 
And read the blood-stained charter of all wo, 
Which nature soon, with re-creating hand. 
Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. 
How bold the flight of passion's wandering wing. 
How swift the step of reason's firmer tread, 
How calm and sweet the victories of life, 
How terrorless the triumph of the grave ! 
How powerless were the mightiest monarch's arm, 
A^ain his loud threat, and impotent his frown ! 
How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar ! 
The weight of his exterminating curse 
How light ! and his affected charity. 
To suit the pressure of the changing times, 
What palpable deceit ! — but for thy aid. 
Religion ! but for thee, prolific fiend. 
Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, 
And heaven with slaves ! 

Thou faintest all thou look'st upon ! — the stars. 
Which on thy cradle beamed so brightly sweet, 
Were gods to the distempered playfiiliiess 
Of thy untutored infancy : the trees. 
The grass, the clouds, the mountahis, and the sea. 
All living things that walk, swim, creep, or fly. 
Were gods : the sun had homage, and the moon 
Her worshipper. Then thou becamcst a boy. 
More daring in thy frenzies : every shape, 
Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild. 
Which from sensation's rehcs, fancy culls ; 
The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, 
The genii of the elements, the powers. 
That give a shape to nature's varied works, 
Had life and place in the corrupt belief 
Of thy blind heart : yet still thy youthful hands 
Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave 
Its strength and ardour to thy fricnzied brain ; 
Thine eager gaze scanned the stupendous scene, 
Whose wonders mocked the knowledge of thy pride : 
Their everlasting and unchanging laws 
Reproach'd thine ignorance. Awhile thou stoodst 
Bafiied and gloomy ; then thou didst sum up 
The elements of all that thou didst know ; 
The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign, 
The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, 
The eternal orbs that beautify the night. 
The sunrise, and the setting of the moon. 
Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, 
And all their causes, to an abstract point 
Converging, thou didst bend, and call'd it God ! 
The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, 
The merciful, and the avenging God ! 
Who, prototype of. human misrule, sits 
High in heaven's realm, upon a golden throne, 
Even like an earthly king ; and whose dread work, 
Hell, gapes for ever for the unhappy slaves 
Of fate, whom he created in his sport. 
To triumph in their torments when they fell ! 
Earth heard the name ; earth trembled, as the smoke 
Of his revenge ascended up to heaven. 
Blotting the constellations ; and the cries 
Of millions butcher'd in sweet confidence 
And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds 



QUEEN MAB, 



29 



Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths 
Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land ; 
Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stubborn 

spear, 
And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's shriek 
Of maniac gladness as the sacred steel 
Felt cold in her torn entrails ! 

Religion ! thou wert then in manhood's prime : 

But age crept on : one God would not suffice 

For senile puerihty ; thou framedst 

A tale to suit thy dotage, and to glut 

Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend 

Thy wickedness had pictured, might afford, 

A plea far sating the unnatural thirst 

For murder, rapine, violence, and crime, 

That still consumed thy being, even when 

Thou heardst the step of fate ; — that flames might 

light 
Thy funeral scene, and the shrill horrent shrieks 
Of parents dying on the pile that burn'd 
To light their children to thy paths, the roar 
Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries 
Of thine apostles, loud commingling there, 

Might sate thy hungry ear 

Even on the bed of death ! 

But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs ; 
Thou art descending to the darksome grave, 
Unhonoured and unpitied, but by those 
Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds, 
Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun 
Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night 
That long has lowered above the ruined world. 

Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light, 

Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused 

A spirit of activity and life. 

That knows no term, cessation, or delay ; 

That fades not when the lamp of earthly life. 

Extinguished in the dampness of the grave, 

Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe 

In the dim newness of its being feels 

The impulses of sublunary things. 

And all is wonder to unpractised sense : 

But, active, steadfast, and eternal, still 

Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars. 

Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, 

Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease ; 

And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly 

Rolls round the eternal universe, and shakes 

Its undccaying battlement, presides. 

Apportioning with irresistible law 

The place each spring of its machine shall fill ; 

So that, when waves on waves tumultuous heap 

Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven 

Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean 

fords. 
Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, 
Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock. 
All seem unlinked contingency and chance : 
No atom of this tm'bulence fulfils 
A vague and unnecessitated task, 
Or acts but as it must or ought to act. 
Even the minutest molecule of light. 
That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow 
Fulfils its destined, though in\isible work, 



The universal Spirit guides ; nor less 

When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, 

Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field, 

That, blind, they there may dig each other's 

graves 
And call the sad work glory, does it rule 
All passions : not a thought, a will, an act. 
No working of the tyrant's moody mind. 
Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast 
Their servitude, to hide the shame they feel. 
Nor the events enchaining eveiy will. 
That firom the depths of unrecorded time 
Have drawm all-influencing virtue, pass 
Unrecognised or unforeseen by thee, 
Soul of the Universe ! eternal spring 
Of life and death, of happiness and wo, 
Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene 
That floats before our eyes in wavering light, 
Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison. 

Whose chains and massy walls 

We feel but cannot see. 

Spirit of Nature ! all sufficing Power. 
Necessity ! thou mother of the world ! 
Unlike the God of human error, thou 
Requirest no prayers or praises ; the caprice 
Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee 
Than do the changeful passions of his breast 
To thy unvarying harmony : the slave. 
Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world. 
And the good man, who lifts, with virtuous pride. 
His being, in the sight of happiness. 
That springs from his own works ; the poison-tree, 
Beneath whose shade all life is withered up, 
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome aflbrds 
A temple where the vows of happy love 
Are register' d, are equal in thy sight : 
No love, no hate thou chcrishest ; revenge 
And favouritism, and worst desire of fame. 
Thou knowest not: all that the wide world 

contains 
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou 
Regard' st them all with an impartial eye 
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel. 
Because thou hast not human sense. 
Because thou art not human mind. 

Yes ! when the sweeping storm of time 
Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined fanes 
And broken altars of the almighty fiend 
Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood 
Through centuries clotted there, has floated down 
The tainted flood of ages, shall thou live 
Unchangeable ! A shrine is raised to thee. 

Which, nor the tempest breath of time. 

Nor the interminable flood. 

Over earth's slight pageant rolling, 
Availeth to destroy, — 
The sensitive extension of the world. 

That wondrous and eternal fane, 
Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, 
To do the will of strong necessity, 

And life in multitudinous shapes, 
Still pressing forward where no term can be. 

Like hungry and unresting flame 
Curls round the eternal columns of its strength. 



30 



QUEEN MAB. 



VII. 



I "WAS an infant when my mother went 

To see an atheist burned. She took me there : 

The dark-robed priests were met around the pile ; 

The muhitude was gazing silently ; 

And as the culprit passed with dauntless mien, 

Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye, 

Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth : 

The thristy fire crept round his manly limbs ; 

His resolute eyes were scorched to blindness soon ; 

His death-pang rent my heart ! the insensate mob 

Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept. 

Weep not, child ! cried my mother, for that man 

Has said, There is no God. 



There is no God ! 
Nature confirms the faith his death-groan seal'd : 
Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving race, 
His ceaseless generations, tell their tale ; 
Let every part depending on the chain 
That links it to the whole, point to the hand 
That grasps its term ! Let every seed that falls, 
In silent eloquence unfold its store 
Of argument : infinity within. 
Infinity without, belie creation ; 
The exterminable spirit it contains 
Is nature's only God ; but human pride 
Is skilful to invent most serious names 
To hide its ignorance. 

The name of God 
Has fenced about all crime with holiness, 
Himself the creature of his worshippers. 
Whose names and attributes and passions change, 
Seeva, Buddh, Foh, Jehovah, God, or Lord, 
Even with the human dupes who build his shrines. 
Still serving o'er the war-polluted world 
For desolation's watchword ; whether hosts 
Stain his death-blushing chariot wheels, as on 
Triumphantly they roll, whilst Brahmins raise 
A sacred hymn to mingle with the groans ; 
Or countless partners of his power divide 
His tyranny to weakness ; of the smoke 
Of burning towns, the cries of female helpless- 
ness. 
Unarmed old age, and youth, and infancy, 
Horribly massacred, ascend to heaven 
In honour of his name ; or, last and worst, 
Earth groans beneath religion's iron age. 
And priests dare babble of a God of peace, 
Even whilst their hands are red with guiltless 

blood, 
Murdering the while, uprooting every germ 
Of truth, exterminating, spoiling all. 
Making the earth a slaughter-house ! 

O Spirit ! through the sense 
By which thy inner nature was apprized 

Of outward shows vague dreams have roU'd, 
And varied reminiscences have waked 

Tablets that never fiide ; 
All things have been imprinted there, 
The stars, the sea, the earth the sky, 



Even the unshapeliest hneaments 
Of wild and fleeting visions 
Have left a record there 
To testify of earth. 

These are my empire, for to me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep. 
And fancy's thin creations to endow 
With manner, being, and reality ; 
Therefore a wondrous phantom, from the dreams 
Of human error's dense and purblind faith, 
I will evoke, to meet thy questioning. 
Ahasuerus rise ! 

A strange and wo-worn wight 
Arose beside the battlement. 

And stood unmoving there. 
His inessential figure cast no shade 

Upon the golden floor ; 
His port and mien bore mark of many years 
And chronicles of untold ancientness 
Were legible within his beamless eye : 

Yet his cheek bore the mark of youth ;1 
Freshness and vigour knit his manly frame ; 
The wisdom of old age was mingled there 
With youth's primeval dauntlessness ; 

And inexpressible wo, 
Chasten'd by fearless resignation, gave 
An awful gi-ace to his all-speaking brow. 

SPIRIT. 

Is there a God 1 

AHASUEKUS. 

Is there a God I — ay, an almighty God, 
And vengeful as almighty ! Once his voice 
Was heard on earth ; earth shudder'd at the sound; 
The fiery-visaged firmament express'd 
Abhon-ence, and the grave of nature yawn'd 
To swallow all the dauntless and the good 
That dared to hurl defiance at his throne. 
Girt as it was with power. None but slaves 
Survived, — cold-blooded slaves, who did the work 
Of tyrannous omnipotence ; whose souls 
No honest intUgnation ever urged 
To elevated daring, to one deed 
Which gross and sensual self did not pollute. 
These slaves built temples for the omnipotent fiend. 
Gorgeous and vast : the costly altars smoked 
With human blood, and hideous paeans rung 
Through all the long-drawn aisles. A murderer 

heard 
His voice in Egypt, one whose gifts and arts 
Had raised him to his eminence in power. 
Accomplice of omnipotence in crime. 
And confident of the all-knowing one. 
These were Jehovah's words. 

From an eternity of idleness 

I, God, awoke ; in seven days' toil made earth 

From nothing ; rested, and created man : 

I placed him in a paradise, and there 

Planted the tree of evil, so that he 

Might eat and perish, and my soul procure 

Wherewith to sate its malice, and to turn. 

Even like a heartless conqueror of the earth, 

All misery to my fame. The race of men 

Chosen to my honour, with impunity 



QUEEN MAB. 



31 



May sate the lusts I planted in their heart. 
Here I command thee hence to lead them on, 
Until, with harden'd feet, their conquering troops 
Wade on the promised soil through woman's blood, 
And make my name be dreaded through the land. 
Yet ever-burning flame and ceaseless wo 
Shall be the doom of their eternal souls, 
With every soul on this ungrateful earth, 
Virtuous or vicious, weak or strong,' — ^even all 
Shall perish, to fulfil the blind revenge 
(Which you, to men, call justice) of their God. 

The murderer's brow 
Quiver'd with horror. 

God omnipotent, 
Is there no mercy 1 must our punishment 
Be endless 1 will long ages roll away. 
And see no term ] Oh ! wherefore hast thou made 
In mockery and wrath this evil earth 1 
Mercy becomes the powerful — ^be but just : 

God ! repent and save. 

One way remains : 

1 will beget a son, and he shall bear 
The sins of all the world ; he shall arise 
In an unnoticed corner of the earth. 

And there shall die upon a cross, and purge 
The universal crime ; so that the few 
On whom my grace descends, those who are mark'd 
As vessels to the honour of their God, 
May credit tliis strange sacrifice, and save 
Their souls alive : millions shall live and die, 
Who ne'er shall call upon their Saviour's name, 
But, unredeemed, go to the gaping gi-ave. 
Thousands shall deem it an old woman's tale, 
Such as the nurses frighten babes wdthal : 
These in a gulf of anguish and of flame 
Shall curse their reprobation endlessly, 
Yet tenfold pangs shall force them to avow. 
Even on their beds of torment, where t*hey howl, 
My honour, and the justice of their doom. 
What then avail their virtuous deeds, their thoughts 
Of purity, with radiant genius bright. 
Or lit with human reason's earthly ray 1 
Many are called, but few will I elect. 
Do thou my bidding, Moses ! 

Even the murderer's cheek 
Was blanched with horror, and his quivering lips 
Scarce faintly uttered — almighty one, 
I tremble and obey ! 

Spirit ! centuries have set their seal 

On this heart of man;/ wounds, and loaded brain. 

Since the Incarnate came : humbly he came. 

Veiling his horrible Godhead in the shape 

Of man, scorned by the world, his name unheard, 

Save by the rabble of his native town. 

Even as a parish demagogue. He led 

The crowd; he taught them justice, truth, and 

peace. 
In semblance ; but he lit wathin their souls 
The quenchless flames of zeal, and blest the sword 
He brought on earth to satiate with the blood 
Of truth and freedom his malignant soul. 
At length his mortal frame was led to death. 

1 stood beside him : on the torturing cross 



No pain assailed his unterrestrial sense ; 

And yet he groaned. Indignantly I summed 

The massacres and miseries which his name 

Had sanctioned in my country, and I cried, 

Go ! go ! in mockery. 

A smile of godlike malice reillumed 

His fading lineaments. — ^I go, he cried. 

But thou shalt wander o'er the unquiet earth 

Eternally. The dampness of the grave 

Bathed my imperishable front. I fell. 

And long lay tranced upon the charmed soil. 

When I awoke hell burned within my brain, 

Which staggered on its seat ; for all around 

The mouldering relics of my kindred lay. 

Even as the Almighty's ire arrested them, 

And in their various attitudes of death 

My murdered children's mute and eyeless sculls 

Glared ghastly upon me. 

But my soul. 
From sight and sense of the polluting wo 
Of tyranny, had long learned to prefer 
Hell's freedom to the servitude of heaven. 
Therefore I rose, and dauntlcssly began 
My lonely and unending pilgrimage, 
Resolved to wage unwcariable war 
With my almighty tyrant, and to hurl 
Defiance at his impotence to harm 
Beyond the curse I bore. The very hand 
That barred my passage to the peaceful grave 
Has crushed the earth to misery, and given 
Its empire to the chosen of his slaves. 
These have I seen, even from the earliest dawn 
Of weak, unstable, and precarious power ; 
Then preaching peace, as now they practise wax, 
So, when they turned but from the massacre 
Of unofiending infidels, to quench 
Their thirst for ruin in the very blood 
That flowed in their own veins, and pitiless zeal 
Froze every human feeling, as the wife 
Sheathed in her husband's heart the sacred steel, 
Even whilst its hopes were dreaming of her love; 
And friends to friends, brothers to brothers stood 
Opposed in bloodiest battle-field, and war. 
Scarce satiable by fate's last death-draught waged, 
Drunk from the wine-press of the Almighty's 

ivrath ; 
Whilst the red cross, in mockery of peace. 
Pointed to victory ! When the fray was done, 
No remnant of the exterminated faith 
Survived to tell its ruin, but the flesh. 
With putrid smoke poisoning the atmosphere, 
That rotted on the half-extinguished pile. 

Yes ! I have seen God's worshippers unsheath 
The sword of his revenge, when grace descended, 
Confirming all unnatural impulses, 
To sanctify their desolating deeds ; 
And frantic priests waved the ill-omened cross 
O'er the unhappy earth : then shone the sun 
On showers of gore from the upflashing steel 
Of safe assassination, and all crime 
Made stingless by the spirits of the Lord, 
And blood-red rainbows canopied the land. 

Spirit ! no year of my eventful being 
Has passed unstained by crime and misery, 



33 



QUEEN MAB. 



Which flows from God's own faith. I've marked 

his slaves, 
With tongues whose lies are venomous, beguile 
The insensate mob, and whilst one hand was red 
With murder, feign to stretch the other out 
For brotherhood and peace ; and, that they now 
Babble of love and mercy, whilst their deeds 
Are marked vfith all the narrowness and crime 
That fi-eedom's young arm dares not yet chastise, 
Reason may claim our gratitude, who now, 
Establishing the imperishable throne 
Of truth, and stubborn virtue, maketh vain 
The unprevailing malice of my foe. 
Whose bootless rage heaps torments for the brave, 
Adds impotent eternities to pain. 
Whilst keenest disappointment racks his breast 
To see the smiles of peace around them play, 
To frustrate or to sajictify their doom. 

Thus have I stood, — through a wild waste of years 
Struggling vsdth whirlwinds of mad agony. 
Yet peaceful, and serene, and self-enshrined. 
Mocking my powerless tyrant's horrible curse 
With stubborn and unalterable will. 
Even as a giant oak, which heaven's fierce flame 
Had scathed in the wilderness, to stand 
A monument of fadeless ruin there ; 
iTet peacefully and movelessly it braves 
The midnight conflict of the wintry storm. 
As in the sun-light's calm it spreads 
Its worn and withered arms on high 
To meet the quiet of a summer's noon. 

The Fairy waved her wand : 
Ahasuerus fled 
Fast as the shapes of mingled shade and mist. 
That lurk in the glens of a twilight grove, 
Flee from the morning beam : 
The matter of which dreams are made 
Not more endowed with actual life 
Than this phantasmal portraiture 
Of wandering human thought. 



VIII. 

The present and the past thou hast beheld : 
It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn, 

The secrets of the future. — Time ! 
Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom. 
Render thou up thy half-devoured babes. 
And from the cradles of eternity. 
Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep 
By the deep murmuring stream of passing things. 
Tear thou that gloomy shroi^l. — Spirit, behold 
Thy glorious destiny ! 

Joy to the Spirit came. 
Through the wide rent in Time's eternal veil,' 
Hope was seen beaming through the mists of fear : 

Earth was no longer hell; 

Love, freedom, health, had given 
Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime, 

And all its pulses beat 
Symphonious to the planetary spheres : 

Then dulcet music swelled 



Concordant with the life-strings of the soul ; 
It throbbed in sweet and languid beatings there, 
Catching new life from transitory death.' — • 
Like the vague sighings of a wind at even. 
That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea, 
And dies on the creation of its breath. 
And sinks and rises, fails and swells by fits : 
Was the pure stream of feeling 
That sprang from these sweet notes, 
And o'er the Spirit's human sympathies 
With mild and gentle motion calmly flowed. 

Joy to the Spirit came, — 
Such joy as when a lover sees 
The chosen of his soul in happiness. 

And witnesses her peace 
Whose wo to him were bitterer than death ; 

Sees her unfaded check 
Glow mantling in first luxury of health. 

Thrills with her lovely eyes. 
Which like two stars amid the heaving main 

Sparkle through liquid bUss. 

Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen: 
I will not call the ghost of ages gone 
To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore ; 

The present now is past. 
And those events that desolate the earth 
Have faded fi-6m the memory of Time, 
Who dares not give reality to that 
Whose being I annul. To me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep. 
Space, matter, time, and mind. Futmity 
Exposes now its treasure ; let the sight 
Rene^ and strengthen all thy failing hope. 
O human Spirit ! spur thee to the goal 
Where virtue fixes universal peace. 
And, 'midst the ebb and flow of human things. 
Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain still, 
A lighthouse o'er the wild of dreary waves. 

The habitable earth is full of bliss ; 
Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurled 
By everlasting snow-storms round the poles, 
Where matter dared not vegetate nor live. 
But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude 
Bound its broad zone of stillness, are unloosed ; 
And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles 
Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls 
Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand. 
Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet 
To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves. 
And melochze with man's blest nature there. 

Those deserts of immeasurable sand," 
Whose age-collectcd fervours scarce allowed 
A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring. 
Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's love 
Broke on the sultry silentness alone. 
Now teem with countless rills and shady woods, 
Corn-fields and pastures and white cottages ; 
And where the startled wilderness beheld 
A savage conqueror stained in kindred blood, 
A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs 
The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs. 
While shouts and bowlings through the desert rang ; 
Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn, 



QUEEN MAB. 



33 



Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles 
To see a babe before its mother's door, 

Sharing his morning's meal 
With the green and golden basilisk 

That comes to lick his feet. 

Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail 
Has seen above the illimitable plain, 
Morning on night, and night on morning rise, 
Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread 
Its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright sea. 
Where the loud roaring of the tempest-waves 
So long have mingled with the gusty wind 
In melancholy loneliness, and Swept 
The desert of those ocean solitudes, 
But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, 
The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm ; 
Now to the sweet and many mingling sounds 
Of kindliest human impulses respond. 
Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, 
With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, 
And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, 
^'\'^hilst green woods overcanopy the wave, 
Which like a toil-worn labourer leaps to shore, 
To meet the kisses of the flowrets there. 

All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life : 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck 
To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, 
Rewarding her vnth their pure perfectness : 
The balmy breathings of the wind inhale 
Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad : 
Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, 
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream : 
No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven. 
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 
The foliage of the ever-verdant trees ; 
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair. 
And autumn proudly bears her matron grace, 
Kindhng a flush on the fair cheek of spring. 
Whose virgin bloom beneatli the ruddy fruit 
Reflects its tint, and blushes into love. 

The lion now forgets to thirst for blood : 
There might you see him sporting in the sun, 
Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are sheathed. 
His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made 
His nature as the nature of a lamb. 
Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempting bane 
Poisons no more the pleasure it bestows : 
All bitterness is past ; the cup of joy 
Unraingled mantles to the goblet's brim. 
And courts the thirsty lips it fled before. 

But chief, ambiguous man, he that can know 
More misery, and dream more joy than all ; 
Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast 
To mingle with a loftier instinct there. 
Lending their power to pleasure and to pain, 
Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each ; 
Who stands amid the ever-varying world. 
The burden or the glory of the earth ; 
He chief perceives the change ; his being notes 
The gradual renovation, and defines 
Each movement of its progress on his mind. 
5 



Man, where the gloom of the long polar night 
Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil. 
Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost 
Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual glow. 
Shrank with the plants, and darkened with the night ; 
His chilled and narrow energies, his heart, 
Insensible to courage, truth, or love. 
His stunted stature and imbecile frame. 
Marked him for some abortion of the earth, 
Fit compeer of the bears that roamed around. 
Whose habits and enjoyments were his own: 
His life a feverish dream of stagnant wo, 
Whose meagre wants, but scantily fiilfilled. 
Apprized him ever of the joyous length 
Which his short being's wretchedness had reached; 
His death a pang which famine, cold, and toil. 
Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark 
Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought : 
All was inflicted here that earth's revenge 
Could wreak on the infringers of her law ; 
One curse alone was spared — the name of God. 

Nor, where the tropics bound the realms of day 
With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame, 
Where blue mists through the unmoving atmo- 
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed [sphere 
Unnatural vegetation, where the land 
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest, and disease, 
Was man a nobler being ; slavery [dust ; 

Had crushed him to his country's blood-stained 
Or he was bartered for the fame of power, 
Which, all internal impulses destroying. 
Makes human will an article of trade; 
Or he was changed with Christians for their gold. 
And dragged to distant isles, where to the sound 
Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does the work 
Of all-polluting luxury and wealth. 
Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads 
The long-protracted fulness of their wo ; 
Or he was led to legal butchery, 
To turn to worms beneath that burning sun 
Where kings first leagued against the rights of men, 
And priests first traded with the name of God. 

Even where the milder zone afforded man 

A seeming shelter, yet contagion there. 

Blighting his being with unnumbered ills, 

Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor truth till late 

Availed to arrest its progress, or create 

That peace which first in bloodless victory waved 

Her snowy standard o'er this favoured clime : 

There man was long the train-bearer of slaves, 

The mimic of surrounding misery. 

The jackal of ambition's lion-rage. 

The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. 

Here now the human being stands adorning 
This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind; 
Blest fi-om his birth with all bland impulses, 
Which gently in his noble bosom wake 
All kindly passions and all pure desires. 
Him (still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing. 
Which from the exhaustlcss store of human weal 
Draws on the virtuous mind) the thoughts that rise 
In time-destroying infiniteness, gift 
With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks 



34 



QUEEN MAB. 



The unprevailing hoariness of age, 

And man, once Heeting o'er the transient scene 

Swift as an unrcmenihered vision, stands 

Immortal upon earth : no longer now 

He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, 

And horribly devours his mangled flesh, 

Which, still avenging nature's broken law, 

Kindled all putrid humours in his frame, 

All evil passions, and all vain belief. 

Hatred, despair, and loathing in his mind. 

The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime. 

No longer now the winged habitants. 

That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, 

Flee from the form of man ; but gather round, 

And prune their sunny feathers on the hands 

Which little children stretch in friendly sport 

Towards these dreadless partners of their play. 

All things are void of terror : man has lost 

His terrible prerogative, and stands 

An equal amidst equals : happiness 

And science dawn, though late, upon the earth ; 

Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; 

Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, 

Reason and passion cease to combat there ; 

Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth extends 

Its all-subduing energies, and wields 

The sceptre of a vast dominion there ; 

Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends 

Its force to the omnipotence of mind. 

Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth 

To decorate its paradise of peace. 



IX. 

O HAPPY Earth ! reality of Heaven ! 
To which those restless souls that ceaselessly 
Throng through the human universe, aspire ; 
Thou consummation of all mortal hope ! 
Thou glorious prize of blindly-working vnll I 
Whose rays, diftused throughout all space and time, 
Verge to one point and blend for ever there : 
Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place ! 
Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime. 
Languor, disease, and ignorance, dare not come : 
happy Earth, reality of Heaven ! 

Genius has seen thee in her passionate dreams ; 
And dim forebodings of thy loveliness. 
Haunting the human heart, have there entvi^ined 
Those rooted hopes of some sweet place of bliss, 
Where friends and lovers meet to part no more. 
Thou art the end of all desire and will. 
The product of all action ; and the souls 
That by the paths of an aspiring change 
Have reached thy haven of perpetual peace. 
There rest from the eternity of toil 
That framed the fabric of thy perfectness.' 

Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his fear ; 

That hoary giant, who, in lonely pride. 

So long had ruled the world, that nations fell 

Bejieath his silent footstep. Pyramids, 

That for millenniums had withstood the tide 

Of human things, his storm-breath drove in sand 

Across that desert where their stones survived 



The name of him whose pride had heaped them 

there. 
Fon monarch, in his solitary pomp, 
Was but the mushroom of a summer day. 
That his light-winged footsep pressed to dust : 
Time was the king of earth : all things gave way 
Before him, hut the fixed and virtuous will. 
The sacred sympathies of soul and sense. 
That mocked his fuiy and prepared his fall. 

Yet slow and gradual dawned the morn of love ; 
Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er the scene, 
Till from its native heaven they rolled away : 
First, crime triumphant o'er all hope careered 
Unblushing, undisguising, bold and strong ; 
Whilst falsehood, trickled in virtue's attributes, 
Long sanctified all deeds of vice and wo, 
Till, done by her own venomous sting to death, 
She left the moral world without a law. 
No longer fettering passion's fearless wing. 
Then steadily the happy ferment worked ; 
Reason was free ; and wild though passion went 
Through tangled glens and wood-embosomed 

meads, 
Gathering a garland of the strangest flowere, 
Yet, like the bee returning to her queen, 
She bound the sweetest on her sister's brow. 
Who meek and sober, Icissed the sportive child, 
No longer trembling at the broken rod. 

Mild was the slow necessity of death : 

The tranquil Spirit failed beneath its grasp. 

Without a groan, almost without a fear, 

Calm as a voyager to some distant land, 

And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 

The deadly germs of languor and disease 

Died in the human frame, and purity 

Blest with all gifts her earthly worshippers. 

How vigorous tlien the athletic form of age ! 

How clear its open and unwriukled brow ! 

Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, nor care. 

Had stamped the seal of gray deformity 

On all the mingling lineaments of time. 

How lovely the intrepid front of youth ! 

Which meek-eyed courage decked with freshest 

Courage of soul, that dreaded not a name, [grace; 

And elevated will, that journeyed on 

Through life's phantasmal scene in fearlessness. 

With ■virtue, love, and pleasure, hand in hand. 

Then, tliat sweet bondage which is freedom's self. 

And rivets with sensation's softest tie 

The kindred sympathies of human souls. 

Needed no fetters of tyrannic law. 

Those delicate and timid impulses 

In nature's primal modesty arose, 

And with undoubting confidence disclosed 

The growing longings of its dawning love, 

Unchecked by dull and selfish chastity, 

That virtue of the cheaply virtuous. 

Who pride themselves in senselessness and frost. 

No longer prostitution's venomed bane 

Poisoned the springs of happiness and Ufe ; 

Woman and man, in confidence and love, 

Equal and free and pure, together trod 

The mountain-paths of virtue, which no more 

Were stained with blood from many a pilgrim's feet. 



QUEEN MAB. 



35 



Then, where, through distant ages, long in pride 
The palace of the monarch-slave had mocked 
Famine's faint-groan, and penury's silent tear, 
A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and threw 
Year after year their stones upon the field, 
Wakening a lonely echo ; and the leaves 
Of the old thorn, that on the topmost tower 
Usurped the royal ensign's grandeur, shook 
In the stern storm that swayed the topmost tower, 
And whispered strange tales in the whirlwind's ear. 
Low through the lone cathedral's roofless aisles 
The melancholy winds a death-dirge sung ; 
It were a sight of awfulness to see 
The works of faith and slavery, so vast, 
So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal ! 
Even as the corpse that rests beneath its wall. 
A thousand mourners deck the pomp of death 
To-day, the breathing marble glows above 
To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its life : to-morrow, worms 
In silence and in darkness seize their prey. 

Within the massy prison's mouldering courts, 
Fearless and free the ruddy children played, 
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows 
With the green ivy and the red wall-ilower. 
That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom ; 
The ponderous chains, and gratings of strong iron, 
There rusted amid heaps of broken stone, 
That mingled slowly with their native earth : 
There the broad beam of day, which feebly once 
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 
With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone 
On the poor smiles of infant playfulness : 
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair 
Pealed tlirough the echoing vaults, but soothing 
Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds Tnotes 
And merriment were resonant around. 
These ruins soon left not a wreck behind : 
Their elements, wide scattered o'er the globe, 
To happier shapes were moulded, and became 
Ministrant to all blissful impulses : 
Thus human things were perfected, and earth, 
Even as a child beneath its mother's love. 
Was strengthened in all excellence, and grew 
Fairer and nobler with each passing year. 

Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene 
Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past 
Fades from our charmed sight. My task is done : 
Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are thine own, 
With all the fear and all the hope they bring. 
My spells are past : the present now recurs. 
Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 
Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. 

Yet, human Spirit ! bravely hold thy course. 

Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 

The gradual paths of an aspiring change : 

For birth and life and death, and that strange state 

Before the naked soul has found its home, 

All tend to perfect happiness, and urge 

The restless wheels of being on their way. 

Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infinite life. 

Bicker and burn, to gain their destined goal. 

For birth but wakes the spirit to the sense 

Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape 



New modes of passion to its frame may lend ; 
Life is its state of action, and the store 
Of all events is aggregated there 
That variegate the eternal universe ; 
Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom. 
That leads to azure isles and beaming skies, 
And happy regions of eternal hope. 
Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on : 
Though storms may break the primrose on its 

stalk, 
Though frosts may blight the freshnesss of its 

bloom, 
Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth. 
To feed with kindliest dews its favourite flower. 
That blooms in mossy banks and darksome glens. 
Lighting the greenwood with its sunny smile. 

Fear not then, Spirit, death's disrobing hand ; 
So welcome when the tyrant is awake. 
So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch bums ; 
'Tis but the voyage of a darksome hour. 
The transient gulf-dream of a startling sleep. 
Death is no foe to virtue : earth has seen 
Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, 
Mingling with freedom's fadeless laiu-els there. 
And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. 
Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene 
Of Hnked and gradual being has confirmed ] 
Whose stin^ings bade thy heart look further still, 
When to the moonlight walk, by Henry led, 
Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of death 1 
And wilt thou rudely tear them from thy breast, 
Listening supinely to a bigot's creed. 
Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's rod, 
Whose iron thongs are red with human gore ? 
Never : but bravely hearing on, thy will 
Is destined an eternal war to wage 
W^ith tyranny and falsehood, and uproot 
The germs of misery from the human heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime, 
Wliose impotence an easy pardon gains. 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's disease : 
Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy 
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will. 
When fenced by power and master of the world. 
Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute mind. 
Free fi-om heart-withering custom's cold control. 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 
Eiirth's pride and meanness could not vanquish 

thee, • 

And therefore ai-t thou worthy of the boon 
Which thou hast now received : virtue shall keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod. 
And many days of beaming hope shall bless 
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. 
Go, happy one ! and give that bosom joy. 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from thy smile. 

The Fairy waves her wand of charm. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car, 

That rolled beside the battlement. 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. 

Again the enchanted steeds were yoked. 

Again the burning wheels inflame 



36 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



The steep descent of heaven's untrodden way. 
Fast and far the chariot flew : 
The vast and fiery globes tliat rolled 
Around the Fairy's palace-gate 
Lessened by slow degrees, and soon appeared 
Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs 
That there attendant on the solar power 
With borrowed light pursued their narrower way. 

Earth floated then below : 
The chariot paused a moment there ; 
The Spirit then descended : 
The restless coursers pawed the ungenial soil, 



SnuflTed the gross air, and then, their errand done, 
Unfurled their pinions to the winds of heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then ; 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame : 
Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; 
Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained : 
She looked around in wonder, and beheld 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, 
Watching her sleep with looks of speechless 
love, 
And the bright beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 



NOTES. 



P. 19, col. 2, I. 4. 



The sun's unclouded orh 
Rolled through the black concave. 
Betokd our atmosphere the sun would appear 
a rayless orb of fire in the midst of a black con- 
cave. The equal diifuslon of its light on earth is 
owing to the refraction of the rays by the atmo- 
sphere, and their reflection from other bodies. 
Light consists either of vibrations propagated 
through a subtle medium, or of numerous minute 
particles repelled in all directions from the lumi- 
nous body. Its velocity greatly exceeds that of 
any substance with which we are acquainted : ob- 
servations on the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites 
have demonstrated that light takes up no more 
than 8' 1" in passing from the sun to the earth, a 
distance of 95,000,000 miles. — Some idea may be 
gained of the immense distance of the fixed stars, 
when it is computed that many years would elapse 
before light could reach this earth from the nearest 
of them ; yet in one year light travels 5,422,400,- 
000,000 miles, which is a distance 5,707,600 times 
greater than that of the sun from the earth. 
P. 19 col. 2,1. 14. 

Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable sjjstems rolled. • 

The plurality of worlds, — the indefinite im- 
niensity of the universe, — is a most awful subject 
of contemplation. He who rightly feels its mys- 
tery and grandeur is in no danger of seduction 
from the falsehoods of religious systems, or of dei- 
fying the principle of the universe. It is impos- 
sible to believe that the Spirit that pen'ades this 
infinite machine begat a son upon the body of a 
Jewish woman, or is angered at the consequences 
of that necessity which is a synonyme of itself. 
All that miserable tale of the De\il, and Eve, and 
an Intercessor, with the childish mummeries of 
the God of the Jews, is irreconcileable with the 
knowledge of the stars. The works of his fingers 
have borne witness against him. 

The nearest of the fixed stars is inconceivably 
distant from the earth, and they are probably pro- 
portionably distant from each other. By a calcu- 
lation of the velocity of light, Syrius is supposed 
to be at least 54,224,000,000,000 miles from the 



earth.* That which appears only like a thin and 
silvery cloud, streaking the heaven, is in eSect 
composed of innumerable clusters of suns, each 
shining with its own light, and illuminating num- 
bers of planets that revolve around them. Mil- 
lions and millions of suns are ranged around us, 
all attended by innumerable worlds, yet calm, regu- 
lar, and hannonious, all keeping the paths of im- 
mutable necessity. 

P. 25, col. 1, 1. 38. 
These are the hired bravoes who defend 
The tyrant's throne. 

To employ murder as a means of justice, is an 
idea which a man of an enlightened mind will not 
dwell upon with plcasiire. To march forth in 
rank and file, and all the pomp of streamers and 
trumpets, for the purpose of shooting at our fellow- 
men as a mark ; to inflict upon them all the variety 
of wound and anguish ; to leave them weltering 
in their blood ; to wander over the field of deso- 
lation, and count the number of the dying and 
the dead, — are employments which in thesis we 
may maintain to be necessary, but which no good 
man will contemplate with gratulation and delight. 
A battle we suppose is won : — thus truth is esta- 
blished, thus the cause of justice is confirmed ! It 
surely requires no common sagacity to discern the 
connexion between this immense heap of calami- 
ties and the assertion of truth or the mainteuEince 
of justice. 

Kings, and ministers of state, the real authors 
of the calamity, sit unmolested in their cabinet, 
while those against whom the fury of the storm is 
directed are, for the most part, persons who have 
been trepanned into the service, or who are dragged 
unwillingly from their peaceful homes into the 
field of battle. A soldier is a man whose business 
it is to kill those who never oflTended him, and who 
are the innocent mart3rrs of other men's iniquities. 
Whatever may become of the abstract question of 
the justifiableness of war, it seems impossible that 
the soldier should not be a depraved and unnatural 
being. 

To these more serious and momentous conside- 

*See Nicholson's Encyclopedia, art. Light. 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



37 



rations it may be proper to add a recollection of 
the ridiculousness of the military character. Its 
first constituent is obedience; a soldier is, of all 
description of men, the most completely a machine ; 
yet his profession inevitably teaches him something 
of dogmatism, swaggering, and self-consequence : 
he is like the puppet of a showman, who, at the 
very time he is made to strut and swell, and dis- 
play the most farcical airs, we perfectly know can- 
not assume the most insignificant gesture, advance 
either to the right or to the left, but as he is moved 
by his exhibitor. — Godwin's Inquirer, Essay. V. 
I will here subjoin a little poem, so strongly ex- 
pressive of my abhorrence of despotism and false- 
hood, that I fear lest it never again may be depic- 
tured so vividl)^ This opportunity is perhaps the 
only one that ever will occur of rescuing it from 
oblivion. 



FALSEHOOD AND VICE, 

A DIALOGUE, 

Whilst monarchs laughed upon their thrones 
To hear a famished nation's groans, 
And hugged the wealth wrung from the wo 
That makes its eyes and veins o'erflow, — ■ 
Those thrones, high built upon the heaps 
Of bones where frenzied famine sleeps. 
Where slavery wields her scourge of iron, 
Red with mankind's unheeded gore, 
And wars mad fiends the scene environ, 
Mingling with shrieks a drunken roar, 
There Vice and Falsehood took their stand, 
High raised above th' unhappy land. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother ! arise from the dainty fare 

Which thousands have toiled and bled to bestow ; 

A finer feast for thy hungry ear 

Is the news that I bring of human wo. 



And, secret one! what hast thou done, 
To compare, in thy tumid pride, with me 1 
I, whose career, through the blasted year. 
Has been tracked by despair and agony. 

FALSEHOOD. 

What have I done 1 — I have torn the robe 
From baby Truth's unsheltered form. 
And round the desolated globe 
Borne safely the bewildering charm : 
My tyrant-slaves to a dungeon-floor 
Have bound the fearless innocent. 
And streams of fertilizing gore 
Flow from her bosom's hideous rent. 
Which this unfailing dagger gave .... 
I dread that blood ! — no more — this day 
Is ours, though her eternal ray 
Must shine upon our grave. 
Yet know, proud Vice, had I not given 
To thee the robe I stole from heaven, 
Thy shape of ughness and fear 
Had never gained admission here. 



And know that, had I disdained to toil, 
But sate in my lonesome cave the while. 
And ne'er to these hateful sons of heaven. 
Gold, moxarchy, and murder, given; 
Hadst thou with all thine art essayed 
One of thy games then to have played, 
With all thine overweening boast, 
Falsehood, I tell thee thou hast lost ! — 
Yet wherefore this dispute V — we tend. 
Fraternal, to one common end ; 
In this cold grave beneath my feet 
Will our hopes, our fears, and our labours meet. 

FALSEHOOD. 

I brought my daughter, religios', on earth ; 

She smothered Reason's babes in their birth ; 

But dreaded their mother's eye severe, — 

So the crocodile slunk off slily in fear, 

And loosed her bloodhounds from the den .... 

They started from dreams of slaughtered men, 

And, by the light of her poison eye, 

Did her work o'er the wide earth frightfully; 

The dreadful stench of her torches' flare. 

Fed with human fat, polluted the air : 

The curses, the shrieks, the ceaseless cries 

Of the many mingling miseries, 

As on she trod, ascended high 

And trumpeted my \'ictory ! — 

Brother, tell what thou hast done. 



I have extinguished the noonday sun 

In the carnage-smoke of battles won: 

Famine, murder, hell, and power, 

Were glutted in that glorious hour, 

Which searchless fate had stamped for me 

With the seal of her security .... 

For the bloated wretch on yonder throne 

Commanded the bloody fray to rise — 

Like me, he joyed at the stifled moan 

Wrung from a nation's miseries ; 

While the snakes, whose slime even him defiled, 

In ecstacies of malice smiled : 

They thought 'twas theirs, — ^but mine the deed ! 

Theirs is the toil, but mine the meed — 

Ten thousand victims madly bleed. 

They dream that tyrants goad them there 

With poisonous war to taint the air : 

These tyrants, on their beds of thorn, 

Swell with the thoughts of murderous fame, 

And with their gains to lift my name, 

Restless they plan from night to morn : 

I — I do all ; without my aid 

Thy daughter, that relentless maid, 

Could never o'er a death-bed urge 

The fviry of her venomed scourge. 

falsehood. 

Brother, well ! — the world is ours : 
And whether thou or I have won, 
The pestilence expectant lowers 
On all beneath yon blasted sun. 
Our joys, our toils, our honours meet 
In the milk-white and wormy winding-sheet ; 
D 



38 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



A short-lived hope, unceasing care, 
Some heartless scraps of godly prayer, 
A moody curse, and a frenzied sleep 
Ere gapes the grave's unclosing deep, 
A tyrant's dream, a coward's start, 
That ice that clings to a priestly heart, 
A judge's frown, a courtier's smile, 
Make the great whole for which we toil ; 
And, brother, whether thou or I 
Have done the work of misery, 
It little boots : thy toil and pain, 
Without my aid, were more than vam ; 
And but for thee I ne'er had sale 
The guardian of heaven's palace gate. 
P. 26, col. 1, 1. 2. 
Thus do the generations of the earth 
Go to the grave and issue from the womb. 

" One generation passeth away and another ge- 
neration Cometh, but the earth abideth for ever. 
The sun also ariseth and the sun goeth down, and 
hasteth to his place where he arose. The wind 
goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto 
the north ; it whirleth about continually, and the 
wind returneth again according to his circuits. 
All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea i-s not 
full ; unto the place whence the rivers come, thi- 
ther shall they return again." — Eccksiastes, chap. i. 
P. 26, col. 1,1. 6. 

Even as the leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year 
Has scattered on the forest soil. 
Oil) mp (pvWtov ycvcri, tod'jUs koI dfSp'Zv. 
'i>vXXa TO. fih T uvt/juj ■^;afjaAj X"*) «^^'> ^^ ^ '"^'J 
Tri\t96(X)!ra $i'£i" capo; S eTTtyiverai wpn. 

^ lAlAA. Z'. 1. 146. 

P. 26, col. 1,1.50. 
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings. 
Suave, mari magno turbantibus jequora ventis, 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem : 
Non, quia vexari quemquam 'st jocunda voluptas, 
Sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave 'st 
Per campos jnstructa, tua sine parte pericli, 
Suave etiara belli certamina magna tueri : 
Sed nil dulcius est, bene quam miinita tenere, 
Edita doctrina sapientiiiii templa serenn ; 
Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre 
Errare, atque viam palanteis quajrere vitse 
Certare ingenio ; contendere nobilitate, 
Nocteis atque dies niti pra^stante labore 
Ad summas emergere opes, rerumque potiri. 
O miseras hominum menteis ; O pectora ca?ca! 

Lucret. lib. ii. 
P. 26, col. 2, 1. 31. 
And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! 

There is no real wealth but the labour of man. 
Were the mountains of gold and the valleys of 
silver, the world would not be one grain of corn 
the richer ; no one comfort would be added to the 
human race. In consequence of our consideration 
for the precious metals, one man is enabled to 
heap to himself luxuries at the expense of the 
necessaries of his neighbour ; a system admirably 
fitted to produce all the varieties of disease and 
crime, which never fail to characterize the two 



extremes of opulence and penury. A speculator 
takes pride to himself as the promoter of his coun- 
try's prosperity, who employs a number of hands 
in the manufacture of articles avowedly destitute 
of use, or subservient only to the unhallowed 
cravings of luxury and ostentation. The noble- 
man who employs the peasants of his neighbour- 
hood in buildmg his palaces, until "jam pauca 
aratro Jugera, regias moles relinqueiiij' flatters 
himself that he has gained the title of a patriot by 
yielding to the impulses of vanity. The show and 
pomp of courts adduce the same apology for their 
continuance ; and many a fete has been given, 
many a woman has eclipsed her beauty by her 
dress, to benefit the labouring poor and to en- 
courage trade. Who does not see that this is a 
remedy which aggravates, whilst it palliates, the 
countless diseases of society 1 The poor are set 
to labour, — ^for what? Not the food for which 
they famish : not the blankets for want of which 
their babes are frozen by the cold of their miser- 
able hovels : not those comforts of civilization 
without which civilized man is far more miscra])le 
than the meanest savage ; oppressed as he is by 
all its insidious evils, within the daily and taunt- 
ing prospect of its innumerable benefits assiduously 
exhibited before him : — no ; for the pride of power, 
for the miserable isolation of pride, for the false 
pleasures of the hundredth part of society. No 
greater evidence is afforded of the wide-€xtended 
and radical mistakes of civilized man than this 
fact : those arts which are essential to his very 
being ai'e held in the greatest contempt ; employ- 
ments are lucrative in an inverse ratio to their 
usefulness .** the jeweller, the toyman, the actor, 
gains fame and wealth by the exercise of his use- 
less and ridiculous art; whilst the cultivator of 
the eai'th, he without whom society must cease to 
subsist, struggles through contempt and penury, 
and perishes by that famine which, but for his un- 
ceasing exertion, would annihilate the rest of 
mankind. 

I Avill not insult common sense by insisting on 
the doctrine of the natural equality of man. The 
question is not concerning its desirableness, but 
its practicability ; so far as it is practicable, it is 
desirable. That state of human society which 
approaches nearer to an equal partition of its bene- 
fits and evils should, cxteris paribus, be preferred; 
but so long as we conceive that a wanton expen- 
diture of human labour, not for the necessities, not 
even for the luxuries, of the mass of society, but 
for the egotism and ostentation of a few of its 
members, is defensible on the ground of public 
justice, so long we neglect to approximate to the 
redemption of the human race. 

Labour is required for physical, and leisure 'for 
moral improvement : from the former of these ad- 
vantages the rich, and from the latter the poor, by 
the inevitable conditions of their respective situa- 
tions, are precluded. A state which should com- 
bine the advantages of both would be subjected to 
the evils of neither. He that is deficient in firm 

* See Rousseau, " De Tlnegalite parmi les Hommes, 
note 7. 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



39 



health, or vigorous intellect, is but half a man ; 
hence it follows, that, to subject the labouring 
classes to unnecessary labour, is wantonly to de- 
prive them of any opportunities of intellectual im- 
provement : and that the rich are heaping up for 
their own mischief the disease, lassitude, and 
ennui, by which their existence is rendered an 
intolerable burden. 

English reformers exclaim against sinecures, — 
but the true pension list is the rent-roll of the 
landed proprietors : wealth is a power usurped by 
the few, to compel the many to labour for their 
benefit. The laws which support this system de- 
rive their force from the ignorance and credulity 
of its victims : they are the result of a conspiracy 
of the few against the many, who are themselves 
obliged to purchase this pre-eminence by the loss 
of all real comfort. E^ 

The commodities that substantially contribute 
to the subsistence of the human species form a 
very short catalogue : they demand from us but a 
slender portion of industry. If these only were 
produced, and sufficiently produced, the species of 
man would be continued. If the labour necessarily 
required to produce them were equitably divided 
among the poor, and, still more, if it were equitably 
divided among all, each man's share of labour 
would be light, and his portion of leisure would be 
ample. There was a time when this leisure would 
have been of small comparative value : it is to be 
hoped that the time will come when it will be ap- 
plied to the most important purposes. Those 
liours, which are not required for the production 
of the necessaries of life, may be devoted to the 
cultivation of the understanding, the enlargement 
of our stock of knowledge, the refinement of our 
taste, and thus open to us new and more exquisite 
sources of enjoyment. 

It was perhaps necessary that a period of mo- 
nopoly and oppression should subsist, before a 
period of cultivated equality could subsist. Sav- 
ages perhaps would never have been excited to 
the discovery of truth and the invention of art, but 
by the narrow motives which such a period aflbrds. 
But, surely, after the savage state has ceased, and 
men have set out in the glorious career of disco- 
very and invention, monopoly and oppression 
cannot be necessary to prevent them from return- 
ing to a state of barbarism. — Godwin's Inquirer, 
Essay II. See also Pol. Jus. book viii. chap. 11. 

It is a calculation of this admirable author, that 
all the conveniences ot civilized life might be pro- 
duced, if society would divide the labour equally 
among its members, by each individual being em- 
ployed in labour two hours during the day. 

P. 2G, col. 2, 1. 50. 

Or rcU^rion 
Drives his loife raving mad. 

I am acquainted with a lady of considerable 
accomplishments, and the motlicr of a numerous 
family, whom the Christian religion has goaded 
to incurable insanity. A parallel case is, I believe, 
within the experience of every physician. 



Nam jam smpe homines patiiam, carosque parcntes 
Prodiderunt, vitare Achcrusia templa petenles. 

Lucretius. 

P. 27, col. 1, 1. 64. 

Even love is sold. 

Not even the intercourse of the sexes is exempt 
from the despotism of positive institution. Law 
pretends even to govern the indisciplinable wan- 
derings of passion, to put fetters on the clearest 
deductions of reason, and, by appeals to the will, 
to subdue the involuntary aflections of our nature. 
Love is inevitably consequent upon the percep- 
tion of loveliness. Love withers under constraint: 
its very essence is liberty : it is compatible nei- 
ther with obedience, jealousy, nor fear : it is there 
most pure, perfect, and unlimited, where its vota- 
ries live in confidence, equality, and unreserve. 

How long then ought the sexual connexion to 
last 1 what law ought to specify the extent of the 
grievances which should limit its duration? A 
husband and wife ought to continue so long united 
as they love each other : any law, which should 
bind them to cohabitation for one moment after 
the decay of their allection, would be a most 
intolerable tyranny, and the most unworthy of 
toleration. How odious a usurpation of the right 
of private judgment should that law be considered 
which should make the ties of friendship indisso- 
luble, in spite of the caprices, the inconstancy, the 
fallibihty, and capacity for improvement of the 
human mind 1 And by so much would the fet- 
ters of love be heavier and more unendurable than 
those of fiiendship, as love is more vehement and 
capricious, more dependent on those delicate pecu- 
liarities of imagination, and less capable of reduc- 
tion to the ostensible merits of the object. 

The state of society in which we exist is a 
mixture of feudal savageness and imperfect civili- 
zation. The narrow and unenlightened morality 
of the Christian religion is an aggravation of these 
evils. It is not even until lately that mankind 
have admitted that happiness is the sole end of 
the science of ethics, as of all other sciences ; and 
that the fanatical idea of mortifying the flesh for 
the love of God has been discarded. I have 
heard, indeed, an ignorant collegian adduce, in 
favour of Christianity, its hostility to every worldly 
feeling !* 

But if happiness be the object of morality, of 
all human unions and disunions ; if the worthiness 
of every action is to be estimated by the quantity 
of pleasurable sensation it is calculated to pro- 
duce, then the connexion of the sexes is so long 
sacred as it contributes to the comfort of the par- 

* The first Christian emperor made a law by which 
seduction was punished with death : if the female 
pleaded her own consent, she also was punished with 
death ; if the parents endeavoured to screen the crimi- 
nals, they were banished and their estates confiscated ; 
the slaves who misht be accessory were burned alive, 
or torced to swallow melted lead. The very offspring 
of an illegal love were involved in the consequences of 
the sentence. — Oibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. ii. 
page 210. See also, for the hatred of the primitive 
Christians to love, and even marriage, page 269. 



40 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



ties, and is naturally dissolved when its evils are 
greater than its benefits. There is nothing im- 
moral in this separation. Constancy has nothing 
virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it 
confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of 
vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral de- 
fects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet 
choice. Love is free : to promise for ever to love 
the same woman, is not less absurd than to pro- 
mise to believe the same creed : such a vow, in 
both cases, excludes us from all inquiry. The 
language of the votarist is this: The woman I 
now love may be infinitely inferior to many others ; 
the creed I now profess may be a mass of errors 
and absurdities; but I exclude myself from all 
future information as to the amiability of the one 
and the truth of the other, resolving blindly, and 
in spite of conviction, to adhere to them. Is this 
the language of delicacy and reason 1 Is the love 
of such a frigid heart of more worth than its 
belief] 

The present system of constraint does no more, 
in the majority of instances, than make hypocrites 
or open enemies. Persons of delicacy and vhtue, 
unliappily united to those whom they find it im- 
possible to love, spend the lovchest season of their 
life in unproductive etTorts to appear otherwise 
than they are, for the sake of the feelings of their 
partner, or the welfare of their mutual oilspring : 
those of less generosity and refinement openly 
avow their disappointment, and linger out the 
remnant of that union, which only death can dis- 
solve, in a state of incurable bickermg and hosti- 
lity. The early education of the children takes 
its colour from the squabbles of the parents ; they 
are nursed in a systematic school of ill humour, 
violence, and falsehood. Had they been suffered 
to part at the moment when indifierence rendered 
their union irksome, they would have been spared 
many years of misery ; they would have connected 
themselves more suitably, and would have found 
that happiness in the society of more congenial 
partners which is for ever denied them by the des- 
potism of marriage. They would have been sepa- 
rately useful and happy members of society, who, 
whilst united, were miserable, and rendered 
misanthropical by misery. The conviction that 
wedlock is indissoluble, holds out the strongest of 
all temptations to the perverse : they indulge 
without restraint in acrimony, and all the little 
tyraimies of domestic life, when they know that 
their victim is without appeal. If this connection 
were put on a rational basis, each would be 
assured that habitual ill temper would terminate 
in separation, and would check tliis vicious and 
dangerous propensity. 

Prostitution is the legitimate offspring of mar- 
riage and its accompanying errors. Women, for 
no other crime than having followed the dictates 
of a natural appetite, are driven with fury from 
the comforts and sympathies of society. It is less 
venial than murder : and the punishment which 
is inflicted on her who destroys her child to 
escape reproach, is lighter than the life of agony 
and disease to which the prostitute is irrecoverably 



doomed. Has a woman obeyed the impulse of 
unerring nature 1 — society declares war against 
her, pitiless and eternal war : she must be the tame 
slave, she must make no reprisals ; theirs is the 
right of persecution, hers the duty of endurance. 
She lives a life of infamy : the loud and bitter 
laugh of scorn scares her from all return. She 
dies of long and lingering disease ; yet she is in 
fault, she is the criminal, she the froward and un- 
tameable child, — and societ}', forsooth, the pure 
and virtuous matron who casts her as an abortion 
from her undcfiled bosom ! Society avenges her- 
self on the criminals of her own creation ; she is 
employed in anathematizing the vice to-day, which 
yesterday she was the most zealous to teach. 
Thus is formed one-tenth of the population of 
London : meanwhile the evil is twofold. Yoimg 
men, excluded by the fanatical idea of chastity 
from the society of modest and accomplished wo- 
men, asssociate with these vicious and miserable 
beings, — destroying thereby all those exquisite and 
delicate sensibilites whose existence cold-hearted 
worldlings have denied ; annihilating all genuine 
passion, and debasing that to a selfish feeling which 
is the excess of generosity and devotedness. Their 
body and mind alike crumble into a hideous wreck 
of humanity ; idiotcy and disease become per- 
petuated in their miserable offspring, and distant 
generations suffer for the bigoted morality of their 
forefathers. Chastity is a monkish and evangeU- 
cal superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance 
even than unintcllectual sensuality ; it strikes at 
the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns 
more than half the human race to misery, that 
some few may monopolise according to law. A 
system could not well have been devised more 
studiously hostile to human happiness than mar- 
riage. 

I conceive that, from the abolition of marriage, 
the fit and natural aiTangement of sexual con- 
nexion would result. I by no means assert that 
the intercourse would be promiscuous : on the 
contrary, it appears, from the relation of parent to 
child, that this union is generally of long duration, 
and marked above all others with generosity and 
self-devotion. But this is a subject which it is 
perhaps premature to discuss. That which will 
result from the abolition of marriage, will be na- 
tural and right, because choice and change will be 
exempted from restraint. 

In fact, religion and morality, as they now stand, 
compose a practical code of misery and servitude : 
the genius of human happiness must tear every 
leaf from the accursed book of God, ere man can 
read the uiscription on his heart. How would 
morality, dressed up in stifi' stays and finery, start 
from her own disgusting image, should she look 
in the mirror of nature ! 

P. 28, col. 1, 1 54. 
To the red and baleful snn 
That faintly twinkles there. 

The north polar star, to which the axis of the 
earth, in its present state of obliquity, points. It 
is exceedingly probable, from many considerations, 
that this obliquity will gradually diminish, until the 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



41 



equator coincides with the ecHptic : the nights and 
days will then become equal on the earth through- 
out the year, and probably the seasons also. There 
is no greater extravagance in presuming that the 
progress of the perpendicularity of the poles may 
be as rapid as the progress of intellect ; or that 
there should be a perfect identity between the 
moral and physical improvement of the human 
species. It is certain that wisdom is not compati- 
ble with disease, and that, in the present state of 
the climates of the earth, health, in the true and 
comprehensive sense of the word, is out of the 
reach of civilized man. Astronomy teaches us 
that the earth is now in its progress, and that the 
poles arc every year becoming more and more per- 
pendicular to the ecliptic. The strong evidence 
afforded by the history of mythology and geolo- 
gical researches, that some event of this nature has 
taken place already, affords a strong presumption 
that this progress is not merely an oscillation, as 
has been surmised by some late astronomers.* 
Bones of animals peculiar to the torrid zone have 
been found in the north of Siberia, and on the 
banks of the river Ohio. Plants have been found 
in the fossil state in the interior of Germany, 
which demand the present climate of Hindostan 
for their production.f The researches of M. Bail- 
lyj establish the existence of a people who inha- 
bited a tract in Tartary 49° north latitude, of 
greater antiquity than either the Indians, the Chi- 
nese, or the Chaldeans, from whom these nations 
derived their sciences and theology. We find, 
from the testimony of ancientwriters, that Britain, 
Germany, and France, were much colder than at 
present, and that their great rivers were annually 
frozen over. Astronomy teaches us also, that 
since this period the obliquity of the earth's posi- 
tion has been considerably diminished. HE^ 
P. 29, col. 1, 1. 59. 
JVc atom of this turbulence fidjils 
A vague anA unnecessitated task. 
Or acts but as it must and ought to act. 
Deux exemples serviront a nous rendre plus 
sensible le principe qui vient d'etre pose; nous 
emprunterons Fun du physique et I'autre du moral. 
Dans un tourbillon de poussiere qu'eleve un vent 
impiitueux, quclque confus qu'il paroisse a nos 
yeux ; dans la plus affi-euse tempete excite par des 
vents opposes qui soulevent les flots, il n'y a pas 
une seule molecule de poussiere ou d'eau qui soit 
place au hasard, qui n'ait sa cause suffisante pour 
occuper le lieu ou elle se trouve, et qui n'agisse 
rigoureusement de la maniere dont elle doit agir. 
Un geometre qui connoitroit exactement les dif- 
ferentes forces qui agissent dans ces deux cas, et 
les proprietes des molecules qui sont mues, demon- 
trcroit que d'apres des causes donnees, chaque 
molucule agit precisement conime elle doit agir, 
et ne pent agir autrement qu'elle ne fait. 

Dans les convulsions terriblcs qui agitcnt quel- 
quefois les societes pohtiques, et qui produiscnt 

* Laplace, Systeme du Monde. 

t Cabanis, Rapports du Physique et du Moral de 
rilommo, vol. ii. page 400. 
tLettressur les Sciences, li Voltaire. — Badly. 



souvent le renversemcnt d'un empire, il n'y a pas 
une seule action, une seule parole, une seule pen- 
see, une seule volont^, une seule passion dans les 
agens qui concourent a la revolution comme de- 
sti-uctors ou comme victimes, qui ne soit necessaire, 
qui n'agisse comme elle doit agir, qui n'opere 
infailliblement les eficts qu'elle doit operer suivant 
la place qu'occupent ces agens dans ce tourbillon 
moral. Cela paroitroit evident pour une intelli- 
gence qui sera en etat de saiser et d'apprecier toutes 
les actions et reactions des esprits et des corps de 
ceux qui contribuent a cette revolution. — Systeme 
de la Nature, vol. i. page 44. 

P. 29, col. 2, 1. 23. 
J^Tecessity, thou mother of the world ! 

He who asserts the doctrine of Necessity, means 
that, contemplating the events which compose the 
moral and material universe, he beholds only an 
immense and uninterrupted chain of causes and 
effects, no one of which could occupy any other 
place than it does occupy, or act in any other place 
than it does act. The idea of neces.sity is obtained 
by our experience of the connection between ob- 
jects, the uniformity of the operations of nature, 
the constant conjunction of similar events, and the 
consequent inference of one from the other. Man- 
kind are therefore agreed in the admission of ne- 
cessity, if they admit that these two circumstances 
take place in voluntary action. Motive is, to 
voluntary action in the human mind, what cause 
is to effect in the material universe. The word 
liberty, as applied to mind, is analogous to the 
word chance as applied to matter : they spring 
from an ignorance of the certainty of the conjunc- 
tion of antecedents and consequents. 

Every human being is irresistibly impelled to 
act precisely as he does act ; in the eternity which 
preceded his birth a chain of causes was generated, 
which, operating under the name of motives, make 
it impossible that any thought of his mind, or any 
action of his life, should be otherwise than it is. 
Were the doctrine of Necessity false, the human 
mind would no longer be a legitimate object of 
science ; from like causes it would be in vain that 
we should expect like effects ; the strongest motive 
would no longer be paramount over the conditct ; 
all knowledge would be vague and undetcrminate ; 
we could not predict with any certainty that we 
might not meet as an enemy to-morrow him from 
whom we have parted in friendship to-night ; the 
most probable inducements and the clearest reason- 
ings would lose the invariable influence they pos- 
sess. The contrary of this is demonstrably the 
fact. Similar circumstances produce invariably 
similar effects. The precise character and motives 
of any man on any occasion being given, the moral 
philosopher could predict his actions with as much 
certainty, as the natural philosopher could predict 
the effects of the mixture of any particular chemi- 
cal substances. Why is the aged husbandman 
more experienced than the young beginner 1 Be- 
cause there is a uniform, undeniable necessity in 
the operations of the material universe. Why is 
the old statesman more skilful than the raw poli- 
d2 



42 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



ticianl Because, relying on the necessary con- 
junction of motive and action, he proceeds to 
produce moral eflects, by the application of those 
moral causes which experience has shown to be 
effectual. Some actions may be found to which 
we can attach no motives, but these are the effects 
of causes witli which we are unacquainted. Hence 
the relation which motive bears to voluntary action, 
is that of cause to effect ; nor, placed in this point 
of view, is it, or ever has it been, the subject of 
popular or philosophical dispute. None but the 
few fanatics who are engaged in the herculean 
task of reconciling the justice of their God with 
the misery of man, will longer outrage common 
sense by the supposition of an event without a 
cause, a voluntary action without a motive. His- 
tory, politics, morals, criticism, all grounds of rea- 
soning, all principles of science, alike assume the 
truth of the doctrine of Necessity. No farmer 
carrying his corn to market doubts the sale of it at 
the market price. The master of a manufactory 
no more doubts that he can purchase the human 
labour necessary for his purposes, than that his ma- 
chines will act as they have been accustomed to act. 

But, whilst none have scrupled to admit neces- 
sity as influencing matter, many have disputed its 
dominion over mind. Independent of its militating 
with the received ideas of the justice of God, it is 
by no means obvious to a superficial inquiry. 
When the mind observes its own operations, it 
feels no connection of motive and action : but as 
we know " nothing more of causation than the 
constant conjunction of objects and the consequent 
inference of one from the other, as we find that 
these two circumstances are universally allowed to 
have place in voluntary action, we may be easily 
led to own that they are subjected to the necessity 
common to all causes." The actions of the will 
have a regular conjunction with circumstances and 
characters ; motive is, to voluntary action, what 
cause is to effect. But the only idea that we can 
form of causation is a constant conjunction of 
similar objects, and the consequent inference of 
one from the other : wherever this is the case, 
necessity is clearly established. 

The idea of liberty, applied metaphorically to 
the will, has sprung from the misconception of the 
meaning of the word power. What is power ? — 
id quod potest, that which can produce any given 
effect. To deny power, is to say that nothing can 
or has the power to be or act. In the only true 
sense of the word power, it applies with equal 
force to the loadstone as to the human will. Do 
you think these motives, which I shall present, are 
powerful enough to rouse him ] is a question just 
as common as, Do you think this lever has the 
power of raising this weight 1 The advocates of 
free-will assert, that the will has the power of re- 
fusing to be determined by the strongest motive ; 
but the strongest motive is that which, overcoming 
all others, ultimately prevails ; this assertion there- 
fore amounts to a denial of the will being ulti- 
mately determined by that motive which does de- 
termine it, which is absurd. But it is equally 
certain that a man cannot resist the strongest 



motive, as that he caimot overcome a physical 
impossibility. 

The doctrine of Necessity tends to introduce a 
great change into the established notions of moral- 
ity, and utterly to destroy religion. Reward and 
punishment must be considered, by the Neces- 
sarian, merely as motives which he would employ 
in order to procure the adoption or abandonment 
of any given line of conduct. Desert, in the pre- 
sent sense of the word, would no longer have any 
meaning; and he, who should inflict pain upon 
another for no better reason than that he desei-ved 
it, would only gratify his revenge under pretence 
of satisfying justice. It is not enough, says the 
advocate of free-will, that a criminal should be pre- 
vented from a repetition of his crime ; he should 
feel pain ; and his torments, when justly inflicted, 
ouglit precisely to be proportioned to his fault. 
But utility is morality ; that which is incapable of 
producing happiness is useless ; and though the 
crime of Damiens must be condemned, yet the 
frightful torments which revenge, under the name 
of justice, inflicted on this unhappy man, cannot 
be supposed to have augmented, even at the long- 
run, the stock of pleasurable sensation in the 
world. At the same time, the doctrine of Neces- 
sity does not in the least diminish our disappro- 
bation of vice. The conviction which all feel, that 
a viper is a poisonous animal, and that a tiger is 
constrained, by the inevitable condition of his ex- 
istence, to devour men, does not induce us to 
avoid them less sedulously, or, even more, to hesi- 
tate in destroying them : but he would surely be 
of a hard heart, who meeting with a serpent on a 
desert island, or in a situation where it was inca- 
pable of injiu"y, should wantonly deprive it of ex- 
istence. A Necessarian is inconsequent to his 
own principles, if he indulges in hatred or con- 
tempt ; the compassion which he feels for the cri- 
minal is unmixed with a desire of injuring him : 
he looks with an elevated and dreadless composure 
upon the links of the universal chain as they pass 
before his eyes; whilst cowardice, curiosity and 
inconsistency, only assail him in proportion to the 
feebleness and indistinctness with which he has 
perceived and rejected the delusions of fi'ee-will. 

Religion is the perception of the relation in 
which we stand to the principle of the universe. 
But if the principle of the universe be not an 
organic being, the model and prototype of man, 
the relation between it and human beings is abso- 
lutely none. Without some insight into its will 
rcsi^ecting our actions, religion is nugatory and 
vain. But will is only a mode of animal mind; 
moral qualities also are such as only a human 
being can possess ; to attribute them to the prin- 
ciple of the universe, is to annex to it properties 
incompatible with any possible definition of its 
nature. It is probable that the word God was 
originally only an expression denoting the un- 
known cause of the known events which men 
perceived in the universe. By the vulgar mistake 
of a metaphor for a real being, of a word for a 
thing, it became a man, endowed with human 
qualities and governing the universe, as an Earthly 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



43 



monarch governs his kingdom. Their addresses 
to this imaginary being, indeed, are much in the 
same style as those of subjects to a king. They 
acknowledge his benevolence, deprecate his anger, 
and supplicate his favour. 

But the doctrine of Necessity teaches us, that 
in no case could any event have happened other- 
wise than it did happen ; and that, if God is the 
author of good, he is also the author of e^^l ; that, 
if he is entitled to our gratitude for the one, he is 
entitled to our hatred for the other ; that admitting 
the existence of this hypothetic being, he is also 
subjected to the dominion of an immutable neces- 
sity. It is plain that the same arguments which 
prove that God is the author of food, light, and 
life, prove him also to be the author of poison, 
darkness, and death. The wide-wasting earth- 
quake, the storm, the battle, and the tyranny, are 
attributable to this hypothetic being, in the same 
degree as the fairest forms of nature, sunshine, 
liberty, and peace. 

But we are taught, hy the doctrine of Neces- 
sity, that there is neither good nor evil in the 
universe, otherwise than as the events to which 
we apply tliese epithets have relation to our own 
peculiar mode of being. Still less than with the 
hypothesis of a God, will the doctrine of Neces- 
sity accord with the belief of a future state of 
punishment. God made man such as he is, and 
tlien damned him for being so: for to say that 
God was the author of all good, and man the au- 
thor of all evil, is to say that one man made a 
straight line and a crooked one, and another man 
made the incongruity. l^W 

A Mahometan story, much to the present pur- 
pose, is recorded, wherein Adam and Moses are 
introduced disputing before God in the following 
manner. " Thou," says Moses, " art Adam, whom 
God created, and animated with the breath of life, 
and caused to be worshipped by the angels, and 
placed in Paradise, from whence mankind have 
been expelled for thy fault." Whereto Atlam 
answered, « Thou art Moses, whom God chose for 
his apostle, and intrusted with his word, by giving 
thee the tables of the law, and whom he vouch- 
safed to admit to discourse with himself. How 
many years dost thou find tlie law was written 
before I was created V Says Moses, " Forty." 
" And dost thou not find," replied Adam, " these 
words therein, 'and Adam rebelled against his 
Lord and transgressed"!'" Which Moses con- 
fessing, " Dost thou therefore blame rae," conti- 
nued he, " for doing that which God wrote of rac 
that I should do, forty years before I was created ; 
nay, for what was decreed concerning me fifty 
thousand years before the creation of heaven and 
earth ■?" — Sale's Prelim. Disc, to the Koran, 
page 164. 

P. 30, col. 1, 1. 17. 
There is no God ! 

This negation must be understood solely to 
affect a creative Deity. The hypothesis of a per- 
vading Spirit, coeternal with the universe, remains 
unshaken. 

A close examination of the validity of the proofs 



adduced to support any proposition, is the only 
secure way of attaining truth, on the advantages 
of which it is unnecessary to descant : our know- 
ledge of the existence of a Deity is a subject of 
such importance, that it cannot be too minutely 
investigated ; in consequence of this conviction 
we proceed briefly and impartially to examine the 
proofs which have been adduced. It is necessary 
first to consider the nature of belief. 

When a proposition is offered to the mind, it 
perceives the agi-eement or disagreement of the 
ideas of which it is composed. A perception of 
their agreement is termed belief. Many obstacles 
firequently prevent this perception from being im- 
mediate ; these the mind attempts to remove, in 
order that the perception may be distinct. The 
mind is active in the investigation, in order to per- 
fect the state of perception of the relation which 
the component ideas of the proposition bear to 
each, which is passive ; the investigation, being 
confused with the perception, has induced many 
falsely to imagine that the mind is active in be- 
lief, — that belief is an act of volition,' — in conse- 
quence of which it may be regulated by the mind. 
Pursuing, continuing this mistake, they have 
attached a degree of criminality to disbelief; of 
which, in its nature, it is incapable : it is equally 
incapable of merit. 

Belief, then, is a passion, the strength of which, 
like every other passion, is in precise proportion 
to the degrees of excitement. 

The degrees of excitement are three. 

The senses are the sources of all knowledge to 
the mind ; consequently their evidence claims the 
strongest assent. 

The decision of the mind, founded upon our 
own experience, derived from these sources, claims 
the next degree. 

The experience of others, which addresses itself 
to the former one, occupies the lowest degree. 

(A graduated scale, on which should be marked 
the capabilities of propositions to approach the 
test of the senses, would be a just barometer of 
the belief which ought to be attached to them.) 

Consequently, no testimony can be admitted 
which is contrai-y to reason ; reason is founded on 
the evidence of our senses. 

Every proof may be refcn-cd to one of these 
three divisions : it is to be considered what argu- 
ments we receive fi-om each of them, which should 
convince us of the existence of a Deity. 

1st. The evidence of the senses. If the Deity 
should appear to us, if he should convince our 
senses of his existence, this revelation would ne- 
cessarily command belief. Those to whom the 
Deity has thus appeared have the strongest possi- 
ble conviction of his existence. But the God of 
theologians is incapable of local visibility. 

2d. Reason. It is urged that man knows that 
whatever is, must either have had a beginning, or 
have existed from all eternity : he also knows, 
that whatever is not eternal must have had a 
cause. When this reasoning is applied to the 
universe, it is necessary to prove that it was 
created: until that is clearly demonstrated, we 



44 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



may reasonably suppose that it has endured from 
all eternity. We must prove design before we 
can infer a designer. The only idea which we 
can form of causation is derivable from the con- 
stant conjunction of objects, and the consequent 
inference of one from the other. In a case where 
two propositions are diametrically opposite, the 
mind believes that which is least incomprehensi- 
ble ; — it is easier to suppose that the universe has 
existed from all eternity, than to conceive a being 
beyond its limits capable of creating it : if the mind 
sinks beneath the weight of one, is it an alleviation 
to increase the intolcrability of the burden 1 

The other argument, which is founded on a 
man's knowledge of his own existence, stands 
thus. A man knows not only that he now is, but 
that once he was not ; consequently there must 
have been a cause. But our idea of causation is 
alone derivable from the constant conjunction of 
objects and the consequent inference of one from 
the other ; and, reasoning experimentally, we can 
only infer from effects, causes exactly adequate to 
those effects. But there certainly is a generative 
power which is effected by certain instruments : 
we cannot prove that it is inherent in these instru- 
ments ; nor is the contrary hypothesis capable of 
demonstration ; we admit that the generative 
power is incomprehensible ; but to suppose that 
the same effect is produced by an eternal, omni- 
scient, omnipotent, being, leaves the cause in the 
same obscurity, but renders it more incomprehen- 
sible. 

3d. Testimony. It is required that testimony 
should not be contrary to reason. The testimony 
that the Deity convinces the senses of men of his 
existence can only be admitted by us, if our mind 
considers it less probable that these men should 
have been deceived, than that the Deity should 
have appeared to them. Our reason can never 
admit the testimony of men, who not only declare 
that they were eye-witnesses of miracles, but that 
the Deity was irrational ; for he commanded that 
he should be believed, he proposed the highest 
rewards for faith, eternal punishments for disbe- 
Hef. We can only command voluntary actions ; 
belief is not an act of volition ; the mind is even 
passive, or involuntarily active ; from this it is evi- 
dent that we have no sufficient testimony, or 
rather that testimony is insufficient, to prove the 
being of a God. It has been before shown that 
it cannot be deduced from reason. They alone, 
then, who have been convinced by the evidence 
of the senses, can believe it. 

Hence it is evident that, having no proofs from 
any of the three sources of conviction, the mind 
cannot believe the existence of a creative God : it 
is also evident that, as belief is a passion of the 
mind, no degree of criminality is attachable to 
disbeUef; and that they only are reprehensible 
who neglect to remove the false medium through 
which their mind views any subject of discussion. 
Every reflecting mind must acknowledge, that 
there is no proof of the existence of a Deity. 

God is an hypothesis, and as such, stands in 
need of proof; the onus probandi rests on the 



theist. Sir Isaac Newton says: "Hypotheses 
non fingo, quicquid enim ex phenomenis non 
dcducitur hypothesis vocanda est, et hypothesis 
vel mcta physicse, vel physicffi, vel qualitatum 
occultarum, sou mechanicEe, in philosophia locum 
non habent." To all proofs of the existence of a 
creative God apply this valuable rule. We see a 
variety of bodies possessing a variety of powers ; 
we merely know their effects ; we are in a state 
of ignorance with respect to their essences and 
causes. These Newton calls the phenomena of 
things ; but the pride of philosophy is unwilling 
to admit its ignorance of their causes. From the 
phenomena, which are the objects of om: senses, 
we attempt to infer a cause, which we call God, 
and gratuitously endow it with all negative and 
contradictory qualities. From this hypothesis we 
invent this general name, to conceal our ignorance 
of causes and essences. The being called God by 
no means answers with the conditions prescribed 
by Newton ; it bears every mark of a veil woven 
by philosophical conceit, to hide the ignorance of 
philosophers even from themselves. They bor- 
row the threads of its texture from the anthrojio- 
morphism of the vulgar. Words have been used 
by sophists for the same purposes, from the occult 
qualities of the Peripatetics to the effiuvium of 
Boyle and the crinities or nebulae of Herschel. 
God is represented as infinite, eternal, incompre- 
hensible ; he is contained under every prsedicute 
in non that the logic of ignorance could fabricate. 
Even his worshippers allow that it is impossible 
to form any idea of him ; they exclaim with the 
French poet, 

Pour dire ce qu'il est, il faut etre lui-meme. 

IW 
Lord Bacon says, that " atheism leaves to man 
reason, philosophy, natural piety, laws, reputation, 
and every thing that can serve to conduct him to 
virtue ; but superstition destroys all these, and 
erects itself into a tyranny over the understand- 
ings of men : hence atheism never disturbs the 
government, but renders man more clear-sighted, 
since he sees nothing beyond the boundaries of 
the present life." — Bacon's Mural Essays. 

La premiere theologie de I'homme lui fit d'abord 
craindre et adorer les elements meme, des objets 
materiels et grossiers ; ilrendit ensuite ses hommages 
a des agents presidents aux elements, a des genies 
inferieurs, a des heros, ou a des hommes doues de 
grandes qualites. A force de reflechir, il crut sim- 
plifier les choses en soummetant la nature entiure 
a un seul agent, a un esprit, a une ame universello, 
qui mettoit cette nature et ses parties en mouve- 
ment. En remontant de causes en causes, les 
mortels ont fini par nerien voir; et c'est dans cette 
obscurite qu'ils ont place leur Dieu ; c'est dans 
cet abime tenebreux que leur imagination inquiete 
travaille toujours a so fabriquer de^ chimeres, qui 
les affligeront jusqu'a ce que la connoissance de la 
nature les detrompe des fantomes qu'ils ont tou- 
jours si vainement adores. 

Si nous voulons nous rendre compte de nos idees 
sur la Di\inite, nous serons obliges de convenir 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



45 



que, par le mot Dieu, les hommes n'ont jamais pu 
designer que la cause la plus cachaee, la plus 
eloignee, la plus inconnue des effets qu'ils voyoient : 
ils ne font usage de ce mot, que lorsque le jeu des 
causes naturelles et connues cesse d'etre visible 
pour eux ; des qu'ils perdent le fil de ces causes, 
ou des que leur esprit no peut plus en suivre la 
chaine, ils tranchent leur ditficulte, et terminent 
leurs recherches en appellant Dieu la derniere des 
causes, c'est-a-dire celle qui est au-dela de toutes 
les causes qu'ils connoissent; ainsi ils ne font 
qu'assigner une denomination vague a une cause 
ignoree, a laquelle leur paresse ou les bornes de 
leurs connoissances les forcent de s'arreter. Toutes 
les fois qu'on nous dit que Dieu est I'auteur de 
quelque plienomene, cela signfie qu'on ignore 
comment un tel phenomene pu s'operer par le 
secours des forces ou des causes que nous eonnois- 
sons dans la nature. C'est ainsi que le commun 
des hommes, dont I'ignorance est le partage, at- 
tribue a la Divinite non seulement les effets inu- 
sites qui les frappent, mais encore les evenemens 
les plus simples, dont les causes sont les plus fa- 
ciles a connoitre pour quiconque a pu les mediter. 
En un mot, I'hommeatoujours respecte les causes 
inconnues des effets surprenans, que son ignorance 
Tempeshoit de demeler. Ce fut sur les debris de 
la nature que les hommes eleverent le colosse ima- 
gininaire de la Divinite. 

Si rignorance de la nature donna la naissance 
aux dieux, la connoissance de la nature est faite 
pour les detruire. A mesure que I'homme s'instruit, 
ses forces et ces ressources augmentent avec ses 
lumieres ; les sciences, les arts conservateurs, I'in- 
dustrie, lui fournissent des secours; I'experience 
le rassure ou lui procure des moyens des resister 
aux efforts de bien des causes qui cessent de I'alar- 
mer des qu'il les a connues. En un mot, ses ter- 
reurs se dissipent duns la meme proportion que 
son esprit s'eclaire. L'homme instruit cesse d'etre 
superstitieux. 

Ce n'est jamais que sur parole que des peuples 
entiers adorent le Dieu de leurs peres et de leurs 
pretres : I'autorite, la confiance, la soumission, et 
I'habitude, leur tiennent lieu de conviction et de 
preuves ; ils se prosternent et prient, parce que leurs 
peres leiu* ont appris a se prosterner et prier : 
mais pourquoi ceux-ci se sont-ils mis a genoux 1 
C'est que dans les temps eloignes leurs legislateurs 
et leurs guides leur en ont fait un devoir. " Ado- 
rez et croyez," ontils dit, " des dieux que vons no 
pouvez comprendre : rapportez-vous-en a notre 
sagesse profonde ; nous en savons plus que vous 
sur la Divinite" Mais pourquoi m'en rapporterois- 
je-a vous 1 C'est que Dieu le veut ainsi, c'est que 
Dieu vous punira si vous oscz resister. Mais ce 
Dieu n'est-il done pas la chose en question'? 
Cependant les hommes se sont toujours payes de ce 
cercle vicieux ; la paresse de leur esprit leur fit 
trouver plus court de s'en rapporter au jugement 
des autres. Toutes les notions religieuses sont 
fondees uniquement sur I'autorite ; toutes les reli- 
gions du monde defendent I'examen, et ne veulent 
pas que Ton raisonne ; c'est I'autorite qui vent 
qu'on croie en Dieu ; ce Dieu n'est lui-meme fonde 



que sur I'autorite de quelques hommes qui pr6- 
tendent le connoitre, et venir de sa part pour I'an- 
noncer a la terre. Un Dieu fait par les hommes, 
a sans doute besoin des hommes pour se faire con- 
noitre aux hommes. 

Ne seroit-ce done que pour des pretres, des in- 
spires, des metaphysiciens, que scroit reservee la 
conviction de I'existence d'un Dieu, que Ton dit 
neanmoins si necessaire a tout le genre humain 7 
Mais trouvons-nous de I'harmonie entre les opi- 
nions theologiques de differens inspires, ou des 
penseurs repandus sur la terre ? Ceux meme qui 
font profession d'adorer le meme Dieu, sont-ils 
d'accord sur son compte 1 Sont-ils contents des 
preuves que leurs collegues apportent de son exis- 
tence 1 Souscrivent-ils unanimement aux idees 
qu'ils presentent sur sa nature, sur sa conduite, 
sur sa fa9on d'entendre ses pretendus oracles 1 
Est-il une contree sur la teiTe, ou la science de 
Dieu se soit reellement perfectionnee ? A-t-elle 
pris quelque part la consistance et I'uniformite que 
nous voyons prendre aux connoissances humaines, 
aux arts les plus futiles, aux metiers les plus me- 
prises] Des mots &^ esprit, d'iminaterialiie, de 
creation, de predestination, de grace ,- cette foule 
de distinctions subtiles dont la theologie s'est par- 
tout remplie dans quelques pays, ces inventions si 
ingenieuses, imaginees par des penseurs qui se sont 
succedes depuis tant de siecles, n'ont fait, helas ! 
qu'embrouiller les choses, et jamais la science la 
plus necessaire aux hommes n'a jusqu'ici pu ac- 
querir la moindre fixite. Depuis des milliers d'an- 
nees, ces reveurs oisifs se sont perpetuellcment re- 
layes pour mediter la Divinite, pour dcviner ses 
voies cachees, pour inventer des hypotheses pro- 
pres a develloper cette enigme importante. Leur 
peu de succes n'a point decourage la vanite theo- 
logique ; toujours on a parle de Dieu: on s'est 
egorge pour lui, et cet etre sublime demeure tou- 
jours le plus ignore et le plus discute. 

Les hommes auroient ete trop heureux, si, se 
bornant aux objets visibles qui les interessent, ils 
eussent employe, a perfectionner leurs sciences 
reelles, leurs lois, leur morale, leur education, la 
moitie des efforts qu'ils ont mis dans leurs recher- 
ches sur la Divinite. lis auroient ete bien plus 
sages encore, et plus fortunes, s'ils eussent pu con- 
sentir a laisser leurs guides descEU\Tes se quereller 
entre eux, et sonder des profondeurs capables de 
les etourdir, sans se meler de leurs disputes insensees. 
Mais il est de I'essence de Tignorance d'attacher 
de I'importance a ce qu'elle ne comprend pas. La 
vanite humaine fait que I'csprit se roidit contre las 
difficulties. Plus un objet se derobe a nos yeux, 
plus nous faisons d'efforts pour le sasir, parceque 
des-lors il aiguillonne notre orgueil, il excite notre 
curiosite, il nous paroit interessant. Eri combat- 
tant pourson Dieu chacun ne combattit en effet 
que pour les interets de sa propre vanite, que de 
toutes les passions produites par la mal-organisa- 
tion de la societe, est la plus prompte a s'alamier, 
et la plus propre a produire de tres-grandes folios. 

Si, ecartant pour im moment les idees facheuses 
que la theologie nous donne d'un Dieu capricieux, 
dont les decrets partiaux et despotiques decident 



46 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



du sort des humains, nous ne voulons fixer nos 
yeux que sur la bonte pretcndue que tons les hom- 
mes, meme en tremblant devant ce Dieu, s'accor- 
dent a lui donner ; si nous lui supposons le projet 
qu'on lui prete, de n' avoir travaille que pour sa 
propre gloire ; d'exiger les hommages des etres 
intelligens ; de ne chercher dans ses ceuvres que 
le bien-etre du genre humain ; comment concilier 
ses vues et ses dispositions avec I'ignorance vraiment 
invincible dans laquelle ce Dieu, si glorieux et si 
bon, laisse la plupart des homraes sur son compte 1 
Si Dieu veut etre connu, cheri, remercie, que ne 
se montre-t-il sous des traits favorables a tous ces 
etres intelligens dont il veut etre aime et adore 1 
Pourquoi ne point se manifester a toute la terre 
d'une fa^on non equivoque, bien plus capable de 
nous convaincre, que ces revelations particulieres 
qui semblent accuser la Divinite d'une partialite 
fecheuse pour quelques-unes de ses creatures 1 
Le Tout-Puissant n'auroit-il done pas des moyens 
plus convainquans da se montrer aux liommes que 
ces metamorphoses ridicules, ces incarnations pre- 
tendues, qui nous sont attcstees par des ecrivains si 
peu d' accord entre eux dans les recits qu'ils en 
fonf! Au lieu de tant de miracles inventes pour 
prouver la mission divine de tant de legislateurs 
reveres par les diflerens peuples du monde, le sou- 
verain des esprits ne pouvoit-il pas convaincre tout 
d'un coup I'esprit humain des choses qu'il a voulu 
lui fairs connoitre? Au lieu de suspendre un 
soleil dans la voute du firmament ; au lieu de re- 
pandre sans ordre les etoiles ct les constellations 
qui remplissent I'espace, n'cut-il pas ete plus con- 
forme aux vues d'un Dieu jaloux de sa glorie et si 
bien-intentionne peur I'homme, d'ecrire d'une fa- 
5on non sujette a dispute, son nom, ses attributs, 
ses volontes permanentes, en caracteresinefiacables, 
et lisibles egalement pour tous les habitans de la 
terre 1 Personne alors n'auroit pu douter de I'ex- 
istence d'un Dieu, de ses volontes claires, de ses 
intentions visibles. Sous les yeux de ce Dieu si 
terrible personne n'auroit eu I'audace de violer ses 
ordonnances ; nul mortel n'eut eu le front d'en 
imposer en son nom, ou d'interpreter ses volontes 
suivant ses propres fantaisies. 

En effet, quand meme on admettroit I'existence 
du Dieu theologique, ct la realite des attributs si 
discordans qu'on lui donne. Ton ne pout en rien 
conclure, pour autoriser la conduite ou les cultes 
qu'on prescrit de lui rendre. La thcologie est vrai- 
ment le tonneau des Dana'ldes. A force de qualites 
contradictoires et d' assertions hasardees, ella a, pour 
ainsi dire, tellement garotte son Dieu qu'elle I'a 
mis dans I'impossibilite-d'agir. S'il est infiniment 
bon, quelle raison aurionsnous de le craindre 1 S'il 
est infiniment sage, de quoi nous inquieter sur 
notre sort 1 S'il sait tout, pourquoi I'avertir de 
nos besoins, et le fatiguer de nos prieres "? S'il est 
partout, pourquoi lui elever destemples 1 S'il est 
maitre de tout, pourquoi lui fau-e des sacrifices et 
des ofTrandes 1 S'il est juste, comment croire qu'il 
punisse des creatures qu'il a remplies de foiblesses 1 
Si la grace fait tout en elles, qu'elle raison auroit- 
il de les recompenserl S'il est tout-puissant, 
comment I'offenser, comment lui resistor'! S'il 



est raisonnable, comment se mettroit-il en colore 
contre des aveugles, a qui il a laisse la liberie de 
deraisonner ! S'il est immuable, de quel droit 
pretcndrions-nous faire changer ses decrcts 1 S'il 
inconcevable, pourquoi nous en occuper 1 S'il a 
fable', pouRauoi l'uxivers n'est-il pas con- 
VAiNcu 1 S'il la connaissance d'un Dieu est la 
plus necessaire, pourquoi n'est-elle pas la plus 
evidente, et la elus claire ? — Systeme de la Na- 
ture. Londo7i, 178L 

The enlightened and benevolent Pliny thus 
publicly professes himself an atheist : — Quapropter 
effigicm Dei, formaraque quaerere, imbccillitatis hu- 
manse reor. Quisquis est Deus (si modo est alius) 
et quacunque in parte, totus est sensus, totus est 
visus totus auditus, totus animse, totus animi, to- 
tus sui. * * * * Imperfectse vero in 
homine naturae prsecipua solatia ne deum quidem 
posse omnia. Namque nee sibi potest mortem 
conscisccre, si velit, quod homini dedit optimum 
in tantis vita poenis : nee mortales seternitate donare, 
aut rcvocarc defunctos ; nee facere ut qui Nixit non 
vixerit, qui honores gessit non gesserit, nullumque 
habere in praeteritum jus, prreterquam oblivionis, 
(atque ut facetis quoque argumentis societas ha-c 
cum deo copuletur,) ut bis dena viginta non sint, 
ct multa similiter efficere non posse. — Per quae, 
dcclaratur baud dubie, naturae potentiam id quoque 
esse, quod Deum vocamus. — Plin. Nat. Hist. cap. 
de Deo. 

The consistent Newtonian is necessarily an 
atheist. See Sir W. Dhummond's Academical 
Questions, chap. iii. — Sir W. seems to consider the 
atheism, to which it leads, as a sufficient presump- 
tion of the falsehood of the system of gravitation: 
but surely it is more consistent with the good faith 
of philosophy to admit a deduction from facts 
than an hypothesis incapable of proof, although 
it might militate with the obstinate preconceptions 
of the mob. Had this author, instead of inveigh- 
ing against the guilt and absurdity of atheism, de- 
monstrated its falsehood, his conduct would have 
been more suited to the modesty of the skeptic 
and the toleration of the philosopher. BEF^ 

Omnia cnim per Dei potentiam facta sunt : imo, 
quia natura; potentia nulla est nisi ipsa Dei poten- 
tia, autem est nos eatenus Dei potentiam non in- 
teUigere, quatenus causas naturales ignoramus; 
adeoque stulte ad eandem Dei potentiam recurri- 
tur, quando rei alicujus, causam naturalem, sive 
est, ipsam Dei potentiam ignoramus. — Spinosa, 
Tract. Theologico-Pol. chap. i. page 14. 

P. 30, col. 2, 1. 12. 
Mhustierus, rise ! 
« Ahasuerus the Jew crept forth from the dark 
cave of Mount Carmel. Near two thousand years 
have elapsed since he was first goaded by never- 
ending restlessness to rove the globe fi-om pole to 
pole. When our Lord was wearied with the bur- 
den of his ponderous cross, and wanted to rest be- 
fore the door of Ahasuerus, the unfeeling wretch 
drove him away with brutality. The saviour of 
mankind staggered, sinking under the heavy load, 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



47 



but uttered no complaint. An angel of death 
appeared before Ahasuerus, and exclaimed indig- 
nantly, ' Barbarian ! thou hast denied rest to the 
Son of Man; be it denied thee also, until he 
comes to judge the world.' 

" A black demon, let loose from hell upon Ahas- 
uerus, goads him now from country to country : 
he is denied the consolation which death affords, 
and precluded from the rest of the peaceful grave. 

" Ahasuerus crept forth from the dark cave of 
Mount Carmel — he shook the dust from his beard — 
and taking up one of the sculls heaped there, hurled 
it down the eminence : it rebounded from the earth 
in shivered atoms. < This was my father !' roared 
Ahasuerus. Seven more sculls rolled down from 
rock to rock ; while the infuriate Jew, following 
them with ghastly looks, exclaimed — ' And these 
were my wives !' He still continued to hurl down 
scull after scull, roaring in dreadful accents — 
' And these, and these, and these were my child- 
ren ! They could die ; but I ! reprobate wretch, 
alas ! I cannot die ! Dreadful beyond conception 
is the judgment that hangs over me. Jerusalem 
fell — ■! crushed the sucking-babe, and precipitated 
myself into the destructive flames. I cursed the 
Romans — but, alas ! alas ! the restless curse held 
me by the hair, — and I could not die ! 

" ' Rome the giantess fell — I placed myself be- 
fore the falling statue — she fell, and did not crush 
me. Nations sprang up and disappeared before 
me ; but I remained, and did not die. From cloud- 
encircled cliff's did I precipitate myself into the 
ocean ; but the foaming billows cast me upon the 
shore, and the burning arrow of existence pierced 
my cold heart again. I leaped into Etna's flaming 
abyss, and roared with the giants for ten long 
months, polluting with my groans the mount's 
sulphureous mouth — ah ! ten long months. The 
volcano fermented, and in a fiery stream of lava 
cast me up. I lay torn by the torture-snakes of 
hell amid the glowing cinders, and yet continued 
to exist. — 'A forest was on fire : I darted, on wings 
of fury and despair, into the crackling wood. Fire 
dropped upon me from the trees, but the flames 
only singed my hmbs ; alas ! it could not consume 
them. — ^I now mixed with the butchers of man- 
kind, and plunged in the tempest of the raging 
battle. I roared defiance to the infuriate Gaul, 
defiance to the victorious German ; but arrows and 
spears rebounded in sliivcrs fi-om my body. The 
Saracen's flaming sword broke upon my scull: 
balls in vain hissed upon me : the lightnings of 
battle glared harmless around my loins : in vain 
did the elephant trample on me, in vain the iron 
hoof of the wrathful steed ! The mine, big with 
destructive power, burst under me, and hm-led me 
high in the air — I fell on heaps of smolung limbs, 
but was only smged. The giant's steel club re- 
bounded trom my body : the executioner's hand 
could not strangle me, the tiger's tooth could not 
pierce mo, nor would the hungi-y lion in the circus 
devour me. I cohabited with poisonous snakes, 
and pinched the red crest of the dragon. The 
serpent stung, but could not destroy me. The 
dragon tormented, but dai-ed not to devour me. — 



I now provoked the fury of tyrants : I said to Nero, 
Thou art a bloodhound ! I said to Christiern, Thou 
art a bloodlaound ! I said to Muley Ismail, Thou 
art a bloodhound! The tyrants invented cruel 

torments, but did not lull me. Ha ! not 

to be able to die — not to be able to die, not to be 
permitted to rest after the toils of life — to be doomed 
to be imprisoned for ever in this clay-formed 
dungeon — to be for ever clogged with tliis worth- 
less body, its load of diseases and infirmities — to 
be condemned to hold for millenniums that yawn- 
ing monster Sameness, and Time, that hungry 
hyena, ever bearing children, and ever devouring 
again her oflspring ! — Ha ! not to be permitted to 
die ! Awfiil avenger in heaven, hast thou in 
thine armoury of wrath a punishment more dread- 
ful] then let it thunder upon me, command a 
hunicane to sweep me dovni to the foot of Carmel, 
that I there may lie extended; may pant, and 
writhe, and die !' " 

This fi-agment is the translation of part of some 
German work, whose title I have vainly endeavoured 
to discover. I picked it up, dirty and torn, some 
3rears ago, in Lmcoln's-Inn Fields. 

P. 31, col. 1, 1. 22. 

I will beget a son, and he shall hear 
The sins of all the world. 

A book is put into our hands when children, 
called the Bible, the purport of whose history is 
briefly this : That God made the earth in six days, 
and there planted a delightful garden, in which he 
placed the first pair of human beings. In the 
midst of the garden he planted a tree, whose fruit, 
although withm their reach, they were forbidden 
to touch. That the De^dl, in the shape of a snake, 
persuaded them to eat of this fi-uit ; in consequence 
of which God condemned both them and their 
posterity yet unborn, to satisfy his justice by their 
eternal misery. That, four thousand years after 
these events, ^the human race in the mean while 
having gone unredeemed to perdition,) God en- 
gendered with the betrothed wife of a carpenter in 
Judea, (whose virginity was nevertheless uninjured,) 
and begat a Son, whose name was Jesus Christ ; 
and who was crucified and died, in order that no 
more men might be devoted to hell-fire, he bearing 
the biuden of his Father's displeasure by proxy. 
The book states, in addition, that the soul of who- 
ever disbelieves this sacrifice will be burned with 
everlasting fire. 

During many ages of misery and darkness this 
story gamed implicit belief; but at length men 
arose who suspected that it was a fable and im- 
posture, and that Jesus Christ, so far fi-om being a 
God, was only a man like themselves. But a 
numerous set of men, who derived and still derive 
immense emoluments from this opinion, in the 
shape of a popular belief, told the vulgar, that, if 
they did not believe in the Bible, they would be 
damned to all eternity ; and burned, imprisoned, 
and poisoned all the unbiassed and vuiconnected 
inqviirerswho occasionally arose. They still oppress 



48 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



them, so far as the people, now become more en- 
lightened, will allow. 

The belief in all that the Bible contains, is called 
Christianity. A Roman governor of Judea, at the 
instances of a priest-led mob, crucified a man called 
Jesus eighteen centuries ago. He was a man of 
pure life, who desired to rescue his countrymen 
from the tyranny of their barbarous and degrading 
superstitions. The common fate of all who desire 
to benefit mankind awaited him. The rabble, at 
the instigation of the priests, demanded his death, 
although his very judge made public acknowledg- 
ment of his innocence. Jesus was sacrificed to the 
honour of that God with whom he was afterwards 
confounded. It is of importance, therefore, to 
distinguish between the pretended character of tliis 
being as the Son of God and the Saviour of the 
world, and his real character as a man, who, for a 
vain attempt to reform the world, paid the forfeit 
of his Ufe to that overbearing tyranny which has 
since so long desolated the universe in his name. 
WMlst the one is a hypocritical demon, who an- 
nounces himself as the God of compassion and 
peace, even wliilst he stretches forth his blood-red 
hand with the sword of discord to waste the earth, 
ha^^ng confessedly devised this scheme of desolation 
from eternity ; the other stands in the foremost list 
of those true heroes, who have died in the glorious 
mart^-rdora of liberty, and have braved torture, 
contempt, and poverty, in the cause of suffering 
humanity.* 

The vulgar, ever in extremes, become persuaded 
that the crucifixion of Jesus was a supernatural 
event. Testimonies of nui-acles, so frequent in 
unenlightened ages, were not wanting to prove 
that he was something divine. The belief, rolling 
through the lapse of ages, met with the reveries 
of Plato and the reasonings of Aristotle, and ac- 
quired force and extent, until the divinity of Jesus 
became a dogma, which to dispute was death, which 
to doubt was infamy. 

Christianity is now the established religion ; he 
who attempts to impugn it must be contented to 
behold mm'derers and traitors take precedence of 
him in pubUc opinion: though, if his genius be 
equal to his coui'age, and assisted by a peculiar 
coaUtion of circumstances, future ages may exalt 
him to a divinity, and persecute others in liis 
name, as he was persecuted in the name of his 
predecessors in the homage of the world. 

The same means that have supported every 
other popular belief, have supported Christianity. 
War, imprisonment, assassination, and falsehood ; 
deeds of unexampled and incomparable atrocity 
have made it what it is. The blood shed by the 
votaries of the God of mercy and peace, since the 
establishment of liis religion, would probably suffice 
to drown all other sectaries now on the habitable 
globe. We derive from our ancestors a faith thus 
fostered and supported : we quarrel, persecute, and 
hate, for its maintenance. Even under a govern- 



* Since writing this note, 1 have seen reason to sus- 
pect that Jesus was an ambitious man, who aspired to 
the throne of Judea. 



ment which, whilst it infiinges the very right of 
thought and speech, boasts of permitting the liberty 
of the press, a man is pilloried and imprisoned be- 
cause he is a deist, and no one raises his voice in 
the indignation of outraged humanity. But it is 
ever a proof that the falsehood of a proposition is 
felt by those who use coercion, not reasoning, to 
procure its admission: and a dispassionate observer 
would feel himself more powerfully mterested in 
favour of a man, who depending on the truth of 
his opinions, simply stated his reasons for entertain- 
ing them, than in that of his aggressor, who, 
daringly avowing his unwillingness or incapacity 
to answer them by argument, proceeded to repress 
the energies and break the spirit of their promulgator 
by that torture and imprisonment whose infliction 
he could command. 

Analogy seems to favour the opinion, that as, 
like other systems, Christianity has arisen and 
augmented, so hke them it will decay and perish ; 
that, as violence, darkness, and deceit, not reason- 
ing and persuasion, have procured its admission 
among mankind, so, when enthusiasm has sub- 
sided, and time, that infallible controverter of false 
opinions, has involved its pretended evidences in 
the darkness of antiquity, it will become obsolete ; 
that Milton's poem alone will give permanency to 
the remembrance of its absurdities ; and that men 
will laugh as heartily at grace, faith, redemption, 
and original sin, as they now do at the metamor- 
phoses of Jupiter, the miracles of Romish saints, the 
efficacy of witchcrafl, and the appearance of de- 
parted spirits. 

Had the Christian rehgion commenced and con- 
tinued by the mere force of reasoning and persuasion, 
the preceding analogy would be inadmissible. We 
should never speculate on the future obsoleteness 
of a system perfectly conformable to nature and 
reason ; it would endure so long as they endured ; 
it would be a truth as indisputable as the light of 
the sun, the criminality of murder, and other facts, 
whose evidence, depending on our organization 
and relative situations, must remain acknowledged 
as satisfactory so long as man is man. It is an in- 
controvertible fact, the consideration of which ought 
to repress the hasty conclusions of credulity, or 
moderate its obstmacy in maintaining them, that, 
had the Jews not been a fanatical race of men, had 
even the resolution of Pontius Pilate been equal to 
his candour, the Christian religion never could 
have prevailed, it could not even have existed : on 
so feeble a thread hangs the most cherished opinion 
of a sixth of the human race ! When will the 
vulgar learn humility ] When will the pride of 
ignorance blush at having believed before it could 
comprehend ? 

Either the Christian religion is true, or it is false; 
if true, it comes from God, and its authenticity can 
admit of doubt and dispute no further than its 
omnipotent author is wilhng to allow. Either the 
power or goodness of God is called in question, if 
he leaves those doctrines most essential to the well- 
being of man in doubt and dispute ; the only ones 
which, since their promulgation, have been the 
subject of imceasing cavil, the cause of irreconcilable 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



49 



hatred. If God has spoken, why is the universe 
not convinced? 

There is this passage in the Christian Scriptures : 
"Tliose who obey not God, and beheve not the 
Gospel of his Son, shall be punished with everlast- 
ing destruction." This is (he pivot upon which 
all religions turn : they all assume that it is in our 
power to believe or not to believe ; whereas the 
mind can only believe that which it thinks true. 
A human being can only be supposed accountable 
for those actions which are influenced by his vdll. 
But belief is utterly distinct from, and unconnected 
with, volition : it is the apprehension of the agree- 
ment or disagreement of the ideas that compose 
any proposition. Belief is a passion, or involuntary 
operation of the mind, and, like other passions, its 
intensity is precisely proportionate to the degrees 
of excitement. Volition is essential to merit or 
demerit. But the Clu-istian religion attaches the 
highest possible degrees of merit and demerit to 
that which is worthy of neither, and which is 
totally unconnected with the peculiar faculty of the 
mind, whose presence is essential to their being. 

Christianity was intended to reform the world : 
had an all-wise Being planned it, nothing is more 
improbable than that it should have failed: omni- 
science would infallibly have foreseen the inutility 
of a scheme which experience demonstrates, to tliis 
age, to have been utterly unsuccessful. 

Christianity inculcates the necessit)' of supplicat- 
ing the Deity. Prayer may be considered under two 
points of view ; as an endeavour to change the in- 
tentions of God, or as a formal testimony of our 
obedience. But the former case supposes that the 
caprices of a limited intelligence can occasionally 
instruct the Creator of the world how to regulate 
the universe ; and the latter, a certain degree of 
servility analogous to the loyalty demanded by 
earthly tyrants. Obedience indeed is only the 
pitiful and cowardly egotism of him who tliinks 
that he can do sometliing better than reason. 

Christianity, like all other religions, rests upon 
miracles, prophecies, and martyrdoms. No religion 
ever existed, which had not its prophets, its attested 
miracles, and above all, crowds of devotees who 
woidd bear patiently the most horrible tortiures to 
prove its authenticity. It should appear that in no 
case can a discriminating mind subscribe to the 
genuineness of a miracle. A miracle is an infrac- 
tion of nature's law, by a supernatural cause ; by a 
cause acting beyond that eternal circle within 
which all things are included. God breaks through 
the law of nature, that he may convince mankind 
of the truth of that revelation, which, in spite of 
his precautions, has been, since its introduction, the 
subject of unceasing schism and canl. 

Miracles resolve themselves into the following 
question : * — Whether it is more probable the laws 
of nature, hitherto so immutably harmonious, should 
have undergone violation, or that a man should 
have told a he ? Whether it is more probable 
that we are ignorant of the natural cause of an 
event, or that we know the supernatural one 1 That, 

* See Hume's Essays, vol. ii. page 121. 

7 



in old times, when the powers of nature were less 
known than at present, a certain set of men were 
themselves deceived, or had some hidden motive 
for deceiving others ; or that God begat a son, who, 
in liis legislation, measuring merit, by belief, evi- 
denced himself to be totally ignorant of the powers 
of the human mind — 'of what is voluntary, and 
what is the contrary 1 

We have many instances of men telling Ues ; — • 
none of an infraction of nature's laws, those laws 
of whose government alone we have any knowledge 
or experience. The records of all nations aflbrd 
innumerable instances of men deceiving others either 
from vanity or interest, or themselves being deceived 
by the limitedness of their views and their ignor- 
ance of natural causes ; but where is the accredited 
case of God having come upon earth to give the 
lie to his own creations 1 There would be some- 
thing truly wonderful in the appearance of a ghost ; 
but the assertion of a child that he saw one as he 
passed through the churchyard is universally admit- 
ted to be less miraculous. 

But even supposing that a man should raise a 
dead body to life before your eyes, and on tliis fact 
rest his clahn to being considered the son of God ; 
• — the Humane Society restores drowned persons, 
and as it makes no mystery of the method it em- 
ploys, its members are not mistaken for the sons of 
God. All that we have a right to infer from our 
ignorance of the cause of any event is, that we do 
not know it : had the Mexicans attended to this 
simple rule when they heard the cannon of the 
Spaniards, they would not have considered them as 
gods : the experiments of modern chemistry would 
have defied the wisest philosophers of ancient 
Greece and Rome to have accounted for them on 
natural principles. An author of strong common 
sense has observ'ed, that " a miracle is no miracle 
at second-hand ;" he might have added, that a mira- 
cle is no miracle in any case ; for mitil we are ac- 
quainted with all natural causes, we have no reason 
to imagine others. 

There remains to be considered another proof 
of Christianity — prophecy. A book is written be- 
fore a certain event, in which this event is foretold ; 
how could the prophet have foreknown it without 
inspiration 1 how could he have been inspired with- 
out God ] The greatest stress is laid on the pro- 
phecies of Moses and Hosea on the dispersion of 
the Jews, and that of Isaiah concerning the coming 
of the Messiah. The prophecy of Moses is a collec- 
tion of every possible cursing and blessing, and it 
is so far from being marvellous that the one of 
dispersion should have been fulfilled, that it would 
have been more surprising if, out of all these, none 
should have taken effect. In Deuteronomy, chap. 
xx\iii. ver. 64, where Moses explicitly foretells the 
dispersion, he states that they shall there serve gods 
of wood and stone : " And the Lord shall scatter 
thee among all people, from the one end of the 
earth even to the other, and there thou shalt serve 
other gods, which 7ieither thou nor thy fathers have 
known, even gods of wood and stone." The Jews 
are at this day remarkably tenacious of their reli- 
gion. Moses also declares that they shall be sub- 
E 



50 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



jected to these curses for disobedience to liis ritual : 
" And it shall conae to pass, if thou wilt not heark- 
en unto the voice of the Lord thy God, to observe 
to do all the commandments and statutes wluch I 
command you this day, that all these curses shall 
come upon thee and overtake thee." Is this the 
real reason 1 The third, fourth, and fifth chapters 
of Hosea are apiece of immodest confession. The 
indelicate type might apply in a hundred senses to 
a hundred tilings. The fifty-third chapter of Isaiah 
is more expUcit, yet it does not exceed in clearness 
the oracles of Delphos. The historical proof, that 
Moses, Isaiah, and Hosea did write when they are 
said to have written, is far fi'om being clear and 
circumstantial. 

But prophecy requires proof in its character as a 
miracle ; we have no right to suppose that a man 
foreknew future events from God, until it is de- 
monstrated that he neither could know them by his 
own exertions, nor that the writings which contain 
the prediction could possibly have been fabricated 
after the event pretended to be foretold. It is more 
probable that wiitings, pretending to divine inspira- 
tion, should have been fabricated after the fulfil- 
ment of their pretended prediction, than that they 
should have reall}' been divinely inspired ; when we 
consider that the latter supposition makes God at 
once the creator of the human mind and ignorant 
of its primary powers, particularly as we have 
numberless instances of false religions, and forged 
prophecies of tilings long past, and no accredited 
case of God having conversed with men directly or 
indirectly. It is also possible that the description 
of an event might have foregone its occurence ; but 
this is far from being a legitimate proof of a divine 
revelation, as many men, not pretending to the 
character of a prophet, have nevertheless, in this 
sense, prophesied. 

Lord Chesterfield was never yet taken for a pro- 
phet, even by a bishop, yet he uttered this remark- 
able prediction ; — " The despotic government of 
France is screwed up to the highest pitch ; a revolu- 
tion is fast approacliing ; that revolution, I am con- 
vinced, Tvill be radical and sanguinary." This ap- 
peared in the letters of the prophet long before the 
accomplishment of this wonderful prediction. Now, 
have these particulars come to pass, or have they 
not ] If they have, how could the earl have fore- 
known them without inspiration ] If we admit the 
truth of the Christian religion on testimony such as 
this, we must admit, on the same strength of evi- 
dence, that God has aflivcd the highest rewards to 
belief, and the eternal tortures of the never-dying 
worm to disbelief; both of which have been de- 
monstrated to be involuat iry. 

The last proof of the Chiistian religion depends 
on the influence of the Holy Ghost. Theologians 
divide the influence of the Holy Ghost into its ordi- 
nary and extraordinary modes of operation. - The 
latter is supposed to be tliat which inspired the pro- 
phets and apostles ; and the former to be the gi'ace 
of God, which summarily makes known the truth 
of Ms revelation, to those whose minds are fitted for 
its reception by a submissive perusal of his word. 
Persons convinced m this manner, can do any thing 



but account for their conviction, describe the tune at 
which it happened, or the manner in which it came 
upon them. It is supposed to enter the mind by 
other channels than those of the senses, and there- 
fore professed to be superior to reason fomided on 
their expericfice. 

Admitting, however, the useftilness or possibility 
of a divine revelation, unless we demolish the found- 
ations of all human knowledge, it is requisite that 
our reason should previously demonstrate its genu- 
iness ; for, before we extinguish the steady ray of 
reason and common sense, it is fit that we should 
discover whether we cannot do without their as- 
sistance, whether or no there be any other which 
may suffice to guide us through the labyrinth of 
life ; * for, if a man is to be inspired upon all oc- 
casions, if he is to be sure of a thing because he is 
su7-e, if the ordinary operations of the spirit are not 
to be considered very extraordmary modes of demon- 
stration, if enthusiasm is to usurp the place of 
proof, and madness that of sanity, all reasoning is 
superfluous. The Mahometan dies fighting for Ins 
prophet, the Indian. immolates liimself at the chariot- 
wheels of Brahma, the Hottentot worships an insect, 
the Negro a bunch of feathers, the Mexican sacri- 
fices human victims ! Then- decree of conviction 
must certainly be veiy strong : it cannot arise frdln 
conviction, it must from feelings, the reward of their 
prayers. If each of these should affirm, in opposi- 
tion to the strongest possible arguments, that in- 
spiration carried internal evidence, I fear their in- 
spired brethren, the orthodox missionaries, would 
be so vincharitable as to pronoun'ce them obstinate. 

Miracles cannot be received as testimonies of a 
disputed fact, because all human testimony has ever 
been insufficient to establish the possibility of mira- 
cles. That, which is incapable of proof itself, is 
no proof of any thing else. Prophecy has also been 
rejected by the test of reason. Those, then, who 
have been actually inspired, are the only true be- 
lievers in the Chiistian religion. 

Mox numine viso 
Virginei tumuere sinus, inniiptaque mater 
Arcano stupuit compleri viscera partu, 
Auctnrem paritura suum. Moitalia corda 
Artificein texere pnli, latuitque sub uno 
Pectore, qui totum late complectitur orbem. 

Claudiani Carmen Paschale, 

Docs not so monstrous and disgusting an ab- 
surdity carry its own infamy and refutation with 
itself? liEF° 

P. 33, col. 2, 1. 59. 

Him (still from hope to hope the blias pursuing. 
Which, from the eihattstless store of human weal 
Dawns on the virtuous mind) the thoughts that rise 
In time-destroijing ivjiniteness., gift 
With self-enshrined eternity, ^-c. 

Time is our consciousness of the succession of 
ideas in our mind. Vivid sensation, of either pain 
or pleasure, makes the time seem long, as the com- 
mon phrase is, because it renders us more acutely 

* See Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, 
book iv. chap. six. on Enthusiasm. 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



51 



conscious of our ideas. If a mind be conscious of 
a hundred ideas during one niiiiute by the clock, 
and of two hundred duiing another, the latter of 
these spaces would actually occupy so much greater 
extent in the mind as two exceed one iu quantity. 
If, therefore, the human mind, by any future im- 
provement of its sensibiUty should become conscious 
of an infinite number of ideas in a minute, that mi- 
nute would be eternity. I do not hence infer that 
the actual space between the birth and death of a 
man will ever be prolonged; but that his sensibility 
is perfectible, and that the number of ideas which 
his mind is capable of recei\ing is indeiinitc. One 
man is stretched on the rack during twelve hours, 
another Sleeps soundly in his bed ; the ditlerence of 
time perceived by these two persons is immense ; one 
hardly will believe that half-an-hour has elapsed, 
the other could credit that centuries had flown 
during his agony. Thus the life of a man of virtue 
and talent, who should die in his thirtieth y^ear, is, 
with regard to his own feelings, longer than that of 
a miserable priest-ridden slave, who di'eams out a 
century of dulness. The one has perpetually cul- 
tivated his mental faculties, has rendered himself 
master of his thoughts, can abstract and generalize 
amid the lethargy of every-day business ; — the other 
can slumber over the brightest moments of his be- 
ing, and is unable to remember the hapj)iest hour 
of his life. Perhaps the perishing ephemeron en- 
joys a longer life than the tortoise. 

Dark flood of time ! 
Roll as it tisteth thee — I measure not 
By mont!i!5 or moments thy ambiguous course, 
Another may stand by me on the brink, 
And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken 
That pauses at my feet. The sense of love, 
The thirst for action, and the impassioned tliought, 
Prolong my being ; if I wake no more. 
My life more actual living will contain 
Than some gray veterans of the world's coldsctiool, 
Whose listless hours unprolitably roll, 
By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed. 

See Oodtcin's Pol. Just. vol. i. pag-e 411 ; and 
Condorcet, Esqiiissc d'un Tableau Ilistorique 
des Progrcs de I' Esprit Humain^epoque ix. 

P. 31, col. 1. 1. 4. 

JVo lovgcr now 
He slays the lamb that looks him in the face. 

I hold that the depravity of the physical and 
moral nature of man originated in his unnatural 
habits of life. The origin of man, like that of the 
universe of v/hich he is a part, is enveloped in im- 
penetrable mystery. His generations cither had a 
beginning, or they had not. The weight of evi- 
dence in favour of each of these suppositions seems 
tolerably equal ; and it is perfectly unimportant to 
the present argument which is assumed. The lan- 
guage spoken, however, by the mythology of nearly 
all religions seems to prove, that at some distant 
period man forsook the path of nature, and sacrificed 
the purity and happiness of his being to unnatural 
appetites. The date of this event seems to have 
also been that of some great change in the climates 
of the earth, with which it has an obvious corres- 



pondence. The allegory of Adam and Eve eating 
of the tree of evil, and entailing upon their posterity 
the wralh of God and the loss of everlastmg life, 
admits of no other explanation than the disease and 
crime that have flowed from unnatural diet. Milton 
was so well aware of this, that he makes Eaphael 
thus exhibit to Adam the consequence of his dis- 
obedience. 



Immediately a place 

Before his eyes appeared, sad, noisome, dark 
A lazar-house it seemed, wherein were laid ; 
Numbers of all diseased, all maladies 
Of ghastly spasm or racking torture, qualms 
Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds, 
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs. 
Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs. 
Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy. 
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, 
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence. 
Dropsies, asthmas, and joint-racking rheums. 

— And how many thousands more might not be 
added to this frightful catalogue ! 

The stoiy of Prometheus is one likewise which, 
although universally admitted to be allegorical, has 
never been satisfactorily explained. Prometheus 
stole fire from heaven, and was chained for this crime 
to Mount Caucasus, where a vulture continually 
devoured his liver, that grew to meet his hunger. 
Hesiod says, that before the time of Prometheus, 
mankind were exempt from sufieiing; that they 
enjoyed a vigorous youth, and that death, when at 
length it came, approached like sleep, and gently 
closed their eyes. Again, so general was this opi- 
nion, that Horace, a poet of the Augustan age, 
writes — 

Audax omnia perpeti. 
Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas. 

Audax lapeti genus 
Ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit : 

Post ignem wtheria domo 
Subductum, niacies et nova febrium 

Terris incubuit cohore, 
Semotique prius tarda necessitas 

Lethi corripuit gradum. 

How plain a language is spoken by all this! 
Prometheus (who represents the human race) 
efiectcd some great change in the condition of his 
nature, and applied fire to culinary purposes ; thus 
inventing an expedient for screening from his dis- 
gust the hon'ors of the shambles. From this 
moment his vitals were devoured by the vulture of 
disease. It consumed his being in every shape of 
its loathsome and infinite variety, inducing the 
soul-quelling smkings of premature and \iolent 
death. All \icc arose from the ruin of healthful 
innocence.' — ^Tyranny, superstition, commerce, and 
inequality, were then first known, when reason 
vainly attempted to guide the wanderings of ex- 
acerbated passion. I conclude this part of the 
subject with an abstract from Mr. Newton's De- 
fence of Vegetable Regimen, from whom I have 
borrowed this interpretation of the fable of 
Prometheus. 

« Making allowance for such transposition of the 
events of the allegory as time might produce after 



52 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



the important truths were forgotten, which tliis 
portion of the ancient mythology was intended to 
transmit, the drift of the fable seems to be this : — 
Man at his creation was endowed with the gift of 
perpetual yputh ; that is, he was not formed to be a 
sickly suflering creature as we now see him, but to 
enjoy health, and to sink by slow degrees into the 
bosom of Ms parent earth without disease or pain. 
Prometheus first taught the use of animal food 
(Primus bovem occidit Prometheus*) and of fire, 
with which to render it more digestible and pleasing 
to the taste. Jupiter, and the rest of the gods, for- 
seeing the consequences of these inventions, were 
amused or irritated at the short-sighted devices of the 
newly-formed creature, and left him to experience 
the sad effects of them. Thirst, the necessary 
concomitant of a flesh diet, (perhaps of all diet 
vitiated by culinary preparation,) ensued; water 
was resorted to, and man forfeited the inestimable 
gift of health which he had received from heaven : 
he became diseased, the partaker of 'a precarious 
existence, and no longer descended slowly to his 
grave."t 

But just disease to luxury succeeds ; 
And every death its own avenger breeds, 
The fury passions from that blood began. 
And turned on man a fiercer savage — man. 

Man, and the animals whom he has infected 
with his society or depraved by liis dominion, are 
alone diseased. The wild hog, the mouflon, the 
bison, and the wolf, are perfectly exempt fiom 
malady, and invariably die either from external 
violence or natural old age. But the domestic hog, 
the sheep, the cow, and the dog, are subject to an 
incredible variety of distempers ; and, like the cor- 
rupters of their nature, have physicians who 
thrive upon their miseries. The supereminence 
of man is like Satan's, the supereminence of pain ; 
and the majority of his species, doomed to penury, 
disease, and crime, have reason to curse the un- 
toward event, that, by enabling him to communicate 
his sensations, raised liim above the level of his 
fellow-animals. Bat the steps that have been 
taken are irrevocable. The whole of human science 
is comprised in one question : How can the ad- 
vantages of intellect and ciAilization be reconciled 
with the liberty and pure pleasures of natural life 1 
How can we take the benefits, and reject the evils, 
of the system which is now interwoven with all 
the fibres of our being T — I believe that abstinence 
from animal food and spirituous Uquors would in 
a great measure capacitate us for the solution of 
this important question. 

It is true, that mental and bodily derangement 
is attributable in part to other deviations from recti- 
tude and nature than those which concern diet. 
The mistakes cherished by society respecting the 
connexion of the sexes, whence the misery and 
diseases of unsatisfied celibacy, unenjoying prostitu- 
tion, and the premature arrival of puberty, neces- 
sarily spring: the putrid atmosphere of crowded 

* Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. vii. sect. 57. 
t Return to Nature. Cadell, 1811. 



cities ; the exhalations of chemical processes ; the 
muffling of our bodies in superfluous apparel ; the 
absurd treatment of infants ; — all these, and innu- 
merable other causes, contribute their mite to the 
mass of human evil. 

Comparative anatomy teaches us that man re- 
sembles frugivorous animals in every thing, and 
carnivorous in nothing; he has neither claws 
wherewith to seize his prey, nor distinct and pointed 
teeth to tear the li\ing fibre. A mandarin " of the 
first class," with nails two inches long, would pro- 
bably find them alone ineflicient to hold even a 
hare. After every subterfuge of gluttony, the bull 
must be degraded into the ox, and the ram into 
the wether, by an unnatural and inhuman opera- 
tion, that the flaccid fibre may offer a fainter resist- 
ance to rebellious nature. It is only by softening 
and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation, 
that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or di- 
gestion ; and that the sight of its bloody juices and 
raw horror does not excite intolerable loathmg and 
di.sgust. Let the advocate of animal food force 
himself to a decisive experiment on its fitness, and, 
as Plutarch recommends, tear a living lamb with 
his teeth, and plunging his head into its vitals, slake 
his thirst with the steaming blood; when fresh 
from the deed of horror, let hun revert to the in'e- 
sistible instinct of nature that would rise in judg- 
ment against it, and say, Nature formed me for 
such work as this. Then, and only, would he be 
consistent. 

Man resembles no carnivorous animal. There 
is no exception, unless man be one, to the rule of 
herbivorous animals ha\'ing cellulated colons. 

The ourang-outang perfectly resembles man 
both in the order and number of his teeth. The 
ourang-outang is the most antluopomorphous of the 
ape tribe, all of which are strictly fiaigivorous. 
There is no other species of animals, which live on 
different food, in which this analogy exists,* In 
many frugivorous animals, the canine teeth are 
more pointed and distinct than those of man. The 
resemblance also of the human stomach to that of 
the ourang-outang, is greater than to that of any 
other animal. 

The intestines are also identical with those of 
herbivorous animals, which present a larger surface 
for absorption, and have ample and cellulated 
colons. The caecum also, though short, is larger 
than that of carnivorous animals ; and even here 
the ourang-outang retains its accustomed similarity. 

The structure of the human frame then is that 
of one fitted to a pure vegetable diet in every 
essential particular. It is true, that the reluctance 
to abstain fi-om animal food, in those who have 
been long accustomed to its stimulus, is so great in 
some persons of weak minds, as to be scarcely 
overcome ; but this is far from being any argument 
in its favour. A lamb, which was fed for some 
time on flesh by a ship's crew, refused its natural 
diet at the end of the voyage. There are numerous 
instances of horses, sheep, oxen, and even wood- 

* Cuvier, Legons d'Anat. Comp. torn. iii. pages 169, 
373, 418, 465, 480. Bees's Cyclopaedia, article "Man,."' 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



53 



pigeons, having been taught to Uve upon flesh, 
until they have loathed their natural aliment. 
Young children evidently prefer pastry, oranges, 
apples, and other fruit, to the flesh of animals; 
until, by the gradual depravation of the digestive 
organs the free use of vegetables has for a time 
produced serious inconveniences ; for a time, I say, 
since there never was an instance wherein a change, 
from spirituous liquors and animal food to vegetables 
and pure water, has failed ultimately to in^^gorate 
the body, by rendering its juices bland and con- 
sentaneous, and to restore to the mind that cheer- 
fulness and elasticity which not one in fifty possesses 
on the present system. A love of strong liquors is 
also with ditSculty taught to infants. Almost every 
one remembers the wry faces which the first glass 
of port produced. Unsophisticated instinct is m- 
variably unening ; but to decide on the fitness of 
annual food from the perverted appetites wliich its 
constrained adoption produces, is to make the 
criminal a judge of his own cause ; it is even worse ; 
for it is appealing to the infatuated drunkard in a 
question of the salubrity of brandy. 

What is the cause of morbid action in the animal 
system 1 Not the air we breathe, for our fellow- 
denizens of nature breathe the same uninjured; not 
the water we drink, {\i remote from the pollutions 
of man and his inventions,*) for the animals drink 
it too ; not the earth we tread upon ; not the unob- 
scured sight of glorious nature, in the wood, the 
field, or the expanse of sky and ocean ; notliing that 
we are or do in common with the undiseased in- 
habitants of the forest ; but something then wherein 
we differ Irom them ; our habit of altering our food 
by fire, so that our appetite is no longer a just 
criterion for the fitness of its gratification. Except 
in children, there remain no traces of that instinct 
which determines, in all other animals, what aUment 
is natural or otherwise , and so perfectly obliterated 
are they in the reasoning adulta of our species, that 
it has become necessary to urge considerations 
drawn from comparative anatomy to prove that we 
are naturally frugivorous. 

Crime is madness. Madness is disease. When- 
ever the cause of disease shall be discovered, the 
root, fiom which all vice and misery have so long 
overshadowed the globe, will lie bare to the axe. 
All the exertions of man, firom that moment, may 
be considered as tending to the clear profit of his 
species. No sane mind in a sane body resolves 
upon a real crime. It is a man of violent passions, 
blood-shot eyes, and swollen veins, that alone can 
grasp the knife of murder. The system of a simple 
diet promises no Utopian advantages. It is no mere 
reform of legislation, whilst the furious passions 
and evil propensities of the human heart, in which 
it had its origin, are still unassuaged. It strikes at 
the root of all evil, and is an experiment which 

* The necessity of resorting to some means of purify- 
ing water, and the diseases which arise from its adulte- 
ration in civilized countries, are sufficiently apparent. 
See Dr. Lambe's Reports on Cancer. I do not assent 
that the use of water is in itself unnatural, but that the 
unperverted palate would swallovv no liquid capable 
of occasioning disease. 



may be tried with success not alone by nations, 
but by small societies, families, and even individuals. 
In no cases has a return to vegetable diet produced 
the slightest injury ; in most it has been attended 
with changes undeniably beneficial. Should ever 
a physician be born with the genius of Locke, I am 
persuaded that he might tiace all bodily and mental 
derangements to our unnatural habits, as clearly 
as that philosopher has traced all knowledge to 
sensation. What prolific sources of disease are 
not those mineral and vegetable poisons that have 
been introduced for its extirpation ! How many 
thousands have become murderers and robbers, 
bigots and domestic tyrants, dissolute and aban- 
doned adventurers, from the use of fermented 
liquors ! who, had they slaked their thirst only with 
pure water, would have lived but to diffuse the 
happiness of their own unperverted feelings ! How 
many groundless opinions and absurd institutions 
have received a general sanction from the sottish- 
ness and the intemperance of individuals ! Who 
will assert that, had the populace of Paris satisfied 
their hmiger at the ever-furnished table of vegetable 
nature, they would have lent their brutal sufferings 
to the proscription-list of Robespierre 1 Could a 
set of men, whose passions were not perverted by 
umiatm'al stimuli, look with coolness on an auto 
da fe ? Is it to be believed that a being of gentle 
feelings, rising fi-om his meal of roots, would take 
deUght m sports of blood ] Was Nero a man of 
temperate life 1 Could you read calm health in 
his cheek, flushed with ungovernable propensities 
of hatred for the human race ] Did Muley Ismael's 
pulse beat evenly, was his skin transparent, did 
his eyes beam with liealthfulness, and its invari- 
able concomitants, cheerfulness and benignity] 
Though history has decided none of these questions, 
a child could not hesitate to answer in the negative. 
Surely the bile-suffused cheek of Buonaparte, his 
wrinkled brow, and yellow eye, the ceaseless in- 
quietude of his nervous system, speak no less plainly 
the character of his unresting ambition, than his 
murders and his victories. It is impossible, had 
Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable 
feeders, that he could have had either the mclina- 
tion or the power to ascend the throne of the 
Bourbons. The desire of tyranny could scarcely 
be excited in the individual, the power to tyrannize 
would certainly not be delegated by a society 
neither frenzied by inebriation nor rendered impo- 
tent and UTational by disease. Pregnant indeed 
with inexhaustible calamity is the renunciation of 
instinct, as it concerns our physical nature; 
arithmetic cannot enumerate, nor reason perhaps 
suspect, the multitudinous sources of disease in 
civilized fife. Even common water, that apparently 
innoxious pabulum, when corrupted by the filth 
of populous cities, is a deadly and insidious 
destroyer.* 

There is no disease, bodily or mental, which 
adoption of vegetable diet and pure water has not 
infallibly mitigated wherever 'he experiment has 
been fau'ly tried. Debility is gradually converted 



* Lambe's Penorts on Cancer. 
e"2 



54 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



into strength, disease into healthfulness, madness 
in all its hideous variety, from the ravings of the 
fettered maniac to the unaccountable iiTationalities 
of ill temper, that make a hell of domestic life, into 
a calm and considerate evenness of temper, that 
alone might offer a certain pledge of the future 
moral refonnation of society. On a natural 
system of diet, old age would be our last and our only 
malady ; the term of our existence would be pro- 
tracted ; we should enjoy life, and no longer pre- 
clude others from the enjoyment of it ; all sensa- 
tional delights would be infinitely more exquisite 
and perfect ; the ver)' sense of being would then 
be a continued pleasure, such as we now feel it 
in some few and favoured moments of our youth. 
By all- that is sacred in our hopes for the human 
race, I conjure those who love happiness and truth 
to give a fair trial to the vegetable system ! 
Reasoning is surely superfluous on a subject 
whose merits an experience of six months would 
set for ever at rest. But it is only among the en- 
lightened and benevolent that so great a sacrifice 
of appetite and prejudice can be expected, even 
though its ultimate excellence should not admit 
of dispute. It is found easier, by the short-sighted 
victims of disease, to palliate their torments by 
medicine, than to prevent them by regimen. The 
vulgar of all ranks are invariably sensual and in- 
docile; yet I cannot but feel myself persuaded that, 
when the benefits of vegetable diet are mathemati- 
cally proved ; when it is as clear, that those who 
live naturally are exempt from premature death, 
as that one is not nine, the most sottish of mankind 
will feel a preference towards a long and ti-anquil, 
contrasted with a short and painful, life. On the 
average, out of sixty persons, four die in three 
years. Hopes are entertained that, in April, 1814, 
a statement will be given, that sixty persons, all 
having lived more than three years on vegetables 
and pure water, are then in perfect health. More 
than two years have now elapsed ; not one of them 
has died ; no such example will be found in any 
sixty persons taken at random. Seventeen per- 
sons of all ages ^the families of Dr. Lambe and 
Mr. Newton) have lived for seven years on this 
diet without a death, and almost without the 
slightest illness. Surely when we consider that 
some of these were infants, and one a martyr to 
asthma, now nearly subdued, we may challenge 
any seventeen persons taken at random in this 
city to exMbit a parallel case. Those, who may 
have been excited to question the rectitude of 
established habits of diet by these loose remarks, 
should consult Mr. Newton's luminous and elo- 
quent essay.* 

When these proofs come fliirly before the world, 
and are clearly seen by all who understand arith- 
metic, it is scarcely possible that abstinence from 
aliment demonstrably pernicious should not be- 
come universal.— In proportion to the number of 
proselytes, so will be the weight of evidence ; and, 
when a thousand persons can be produced, living 



* Return to Nature, or Defence of Vegetable Kegiraen. 
Cadell, 1811. 



on vegetables and distilled water, who have to 
dread no disease but old age, the world will be 
compelled to regard animal flesh and fermented 
liquors as slow but certain poisons. The change 
which would be produced by simpler habits on 
political economy is sufficiently remarkable. The 
monopolizing eater of animal flesh would no longer 
destroy his constitution by devouring an acre at a 
meal, and many loaves of bread would cease to 
contribute to gout, madness, and apoplexy, in the 
shape of a pint of porter, or a dram of gin, when 
appeasing the long-protracted famine of the hard- 
working peasant's hungry babes. The quantity 
of nutritious vegetable matter, consumed in fatten- 
ing the carcass of an ox, would afford ten times 
the sustenance, undepraving indeed, and incapable 
of generating disease, if gathered immediately 
from the bosom of the earth. The most fertile 
districts of the habitable globe are now actually 
cultivated by men for animals, at a delay and 
waste of aliment absolutely incapable of calcula- 
tion. It is only the wealthy that can, to any 
great degree, even now, indulge the unnatural 
craving for dead flesh, and they pay for the 
greater license of the privilege by subjection to 
supernumerary diseases. Again, the spirit of the 
nation, that should take the lead in this gi-cct re- 
form, would insensibly become agricultural ; com- 
merce, with all its vice, selfishness, and corruption, 
would gradually decline ; more natural habits 
would produce gentler manners, and the excessive 
complication of political relations would be so far 
simplified, that every individual might feel and 
understand why he loved his country, and took a 
personal interest in its welfare! How would 
England, for example, depend on the caprices of 
foreign rulers, if she contained within herself all 
the necessaries, and despised whatever they pos- 
sessed of the luxuries of life ? How could they 
starve her into compliance with their ^iews 1 Of 
what consequence would it be that they refused 
to take her woollen manufactures, when large and 
fertile tracts of the island ceased to he allotted to 
the waste of pasturage ] On a natural system of 
diet, we should require no spices from India ; no 
wines from Portugal, Spain, France, or Madeira; 
none of those multitudinous articles of luxury, for 
which every comer of the globe is rifled, and 
which are the causes of so much individual rival- 
ship, such calamitous and sanguinary national 
disputes. In the history of modern times, the 
avarice of commercial monopoly, no less than the 
ambition of weak and wicked chiefs, seems to 
have fomented the universal discord, to have added 
stubbornness to the mistakes of cabinets, and in- 
docility to the infatuation of the people. Let it 
ever be remembered, that it is the direct influence 
of commerce to make the interval between the 
richest and the poorest man wider and more un- 
conquerable. Let it be remembered, that it is a 
foe to every thing of real worth and excellence in 
the human character. The odious and disgusting 
aristocracy of wealth is built upon the ruins of all 
that is good in chivalry or republicanism ; and 
luxury is the forerunner of a barbarism scarce 



NOTES ON QUEEN MAB. 



55 



capable of cure. Is it impossible to realize a state 
of society, where all the energies of man shall be 
directed to the production of his solid happiness ] 
Certainly, if this advantage (the object of all poli- 
tical speculation) be in any degree attainable, it 
is attainable only by a community which holds 
no factitious incentives to the avarice and ambi- 
tion of the few, and which is internally organized 
for the liberty, security, and comfort of the many. 
None must be intrusted with power (and money 
is the completest species of power) who do not 
stand pledged to use it exclusively for the general 
benefit. But the use of animal flesh and fer- 
mented liquors directly militates with this equality 
of the rights of man. The peasant cannot gratify 
these fashionable cravings without leaving his 
family to starve. Without disease and war, those 
sweeping curtaUers of population, pasturage would 
include a waste too great to be aflbrded. The 
labour requisite to support a family is far lighter* 
than is usually supposed. The peasantry work, 
not only for themselves, but for the aristocracy, 
the army, and the manufacturers. 

The advantage of a reform in diet is obviously 
greater than that of any other. It strikes at the 
root of the evil. To remedy the abuses of legis- 
lation, before we annihilate the propensities by 
which they are produced, is to suppose, that, by 
taking away the efiect, the cause will cease to 
operate. But the efficacy of this system depends 
entirely on the proselytism of individuals, and 
grounds its merits, as a benefit to the community, 
upon the total change of the dietetic habits in its 
members. It proceeds securely from a number of 
particular cases to one that is universal, and has 
this advantage over the contrary mode, that one 
eiTor does not invalidate all that has gone before. 

Let not too much, however, be expected from 
this system. The healthiest among us is not 
exempt from hereditary disease. The most sym- 
metrical, athletic, and long-lived, is a being inex- 
pressibly inferior to what he would have been, 
had not the unnatural habits of his ancestors 
accumulated for him a certain portion of malady 
and deformity. In the most perfect specimen of 
civilized man, something is still found wanting by 
the physiological critic. Can a return to nature, 
then, instantaneously eradicate predispositions 
that have been slowly taking root in the silence 
of innumerable ages 1 — Indubitably not. All that 
I contend for is, that, from the moment of relin- 
quishing all unnatural habits, no new disease is 
generated; and that the predisposition to heredi- 
tary maladies gradually perishes for want of its 
accustomed supply. In cases of consumption, 
cancer, gout, asthma, and scrofula, such is the 

* It has come under the author's experience, that 
some of the workmen on an embankment in North 
Wales, who in consequence of the inability of the pro- 
prietor to pay them, seldom received their wages, have 
supported large families liy cultivating small spots of 
sterile ground by moonlight. In the notes to Pratt's 
poem, '• Bread or the Poor," is an account of an indus- 
trious labourer, who, by working in a small garden, be- 
fore and after his day's task, attained to an enviable 
state of independence. 



invariable tendency of a diet of vegetables and 
pure water. 

Those who may be induced by these remarks 
to give the vegetable system a fair trial should, in 
the first place, date the commencement of their 
practice from the moment of their conviction. All 
depends upon breaking through a pernicious habit 
resolutely and at once. Dr. Trotter* asserts, that 
no drunkard was ever reformed by gradually re- 
linquishing his dram. Animal flesh, in its effects 
on the human stomach, is analogous to a dram. 
It is similar to the kind, though differing in the 
degree, of its operation. The proselyte to pure 
diet must be warned to expect a temporary dimi- 
nution of muscular strength. The subtraction of 
a powerful stimulus will suffice to account for this 
event. But it is only temporary, and is succeeded 
by an equable capability for exertion, far surpass- 
ing his former various and fluctuating strength. 
Above all, he will acquire an easiness of breathing, 
by which such exertion is performed, with a re- 
markable exemption from that painful and difficult 
panting now felt by almost every one after hastily 
climbing an ordinary mountain. He will be 
equally capable of bodily exertion, or mental ap- 
plication, after as before his simple meal. He 
will feel none of the narcotic effijcts of ordinary 
diet. Irritability, the direct consequence of ex- 
hausting stimuli, would yield to the power of 
natural and tranquil impulses. He will no longer 
pine under the lethargy of ennui, that unconquer- 
able weariness of life, more to be dreaded than 
death itself. He will escape the epidemic mad- 
ness which broods over its own injurious notions 
of the Deity, and " realizes the hell that priests 
and beldams feign." Every man forms as it were 
his god from his own character ; to the divinity 
of one of simple habits no offering would be more 
acceptable than the happiness of his creatures. 
He would be incapable of hating or persecuting 
others for the love of God. He will find, more- 
over, a system of simple diet to be a system of 
perfect epicurism. He will no longer be inces- 
santly occupied in blunting and destroying those 
organs from which he expects his gratification. 
The pleasures of taste to be derived from a dinner 
of potatoes, beans, peas, turnips, lettuces, with a 
dessert of apples, gooseberries, strawberries, cur- 
rants, raspberries, and, in winter, oranges, apples, 
and pears, is far greater than is supposed. Those 
who wait until they can cat this plain fare with 
the sauce of appetite will scarcely join with the 
hypocritical sensualist at a lord-mayor's feast, who 
declaims against the pleasures of the table. So- 
lomon kept a thousand concubines, and owned in 
despair that all was vanity. The man, whose 
happiness is constituted by the society of one 
amiable woman, would find some difficulty in 
sympathizing with the disappointment of this ve- 
nerable debauchee. 

I address myself not to the young enthusiast 
only, the ardent devotee of truth and virtue, the 
pure and passionate moralist, yet unvitiated by 
the contagion of the world. He will embrace a 

* See Trotter on the Neivous Temperament. 



56 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON QUEEN MAB. 



pure system from its abstract truth, its beauty, its 
simplicity, and its promise of wide-cxteiiJed bene- 
fit ; unless custom has turned poison into food, he 
will hate the brutal pleasures of the chase by in- 
stinct; it will be a contemplation full of horror 
and disappointment to his mind, that beings, capa- 
ble of the gentlest and most admirable sympathies, 
should take delight in the death-pangs and last 
convulsions of dying animals. The elderly man, 
whose youth has been poisoned by intemperance, 
or who has lived with apparent moderation, and 
is afflicted with a variety of painful maladies, 
would find his account in a beneficial change pro- 
duced without the risk of poisonous medicines. 
The mother to whom the perpetual restlessness 
of disease, and unaccountable deaths incident to 
her children, are the causes of incurable unhappi- 
riess, would on this diet experience the satisfac- 
tion of beholding their perpetual health and natu- 
ral playfulness.* The most valuable lives are 
daily destroyed by diseases that it is dangerous to 

* See Mr. Newton's book. His children are the most 
beautiful and healthy creatures it is possible to con- 
ceive : the girls are perfect models for a sculptor ; 
their dispositions are also the most gentle and consi- 
lialing : the judicious treatment which they experience 
in other points may be a correlative cause of this. In 
the first five years of their life, of 18,000 children that 
are born, 7500 die of various diseases, and how many 
more of those that survive are rendered miserable by 
maladies not immediately mortal ! The quality and 
quantity of a woman's milk are materially injured by 
the use of dead flesh. In an island near Iceland, where 
no vegetables are to be got, the children invariably die 
of tetanus before they are three weeks old, and the 
population is supplied from the main land. — Sir O. 
Mackenzie's History of Iceland. See also Eiiiile, chap. i. 
pages 53, 54, 56. 



palliate, and impossible to cure, by medicine. 
How much longer will man continue to pimp for 
the gluttony of death, his most insidious, implaca- 
ble, and eternal, foe ] 

'AXXci f^puKOi/ra; dypiovg koSutc, Kal 7rapSa\cii, Kol 
Xfui-ra;, avTol Si itiaiipOi'eiTC ti'j oj^or/7TU, KaTaXinovTCS 
£>c£ii'oij oiiiiii- tKEivoig /xiv yap ipdnoi Tpo<l)hj rijiXv 61 oipov 

* * * » * 

"On yap ovk larw dv9p:oTru> Kara (piaiv to aapKO(payeXv , 
■nphnov fjiiv OTrd niv a-ojitarcji' 6ri\o!}Tat Trjs KaTCuyKCrPJi. 
Oida't yap loiKt to di'Op'oTTOv aCijxa tow m aapK0(l>ayia yzyo- 
I'drtJi', OX) xp'nrOTr]; X^'Xoiif, oiiK o^vrrii ovvxos, ov TpaxvTra 
oioVTOiv npoaeaTW, ov KoiXia; cvronia Koi TTVcijxaTO; dcpftorrn , 
Tpbpai Kal KaTepydaaadat SmaTn to jiapv koI KptiZaei' dW 
aVTodcf i] (pvat; rj? XeiOTrjin rajc oiovToyUj /cat ttj cpuKporriTi 
TOii OTOparOi, Kai ttj poKaKdTrjTi tjIj yhfiaaos , xal Tg lipo; 
■napw a/i/JAvnjrt Toi Tnii.vji.aTOi, i^njjvvTat Tr]v aapKo<i^ayiav, 
Ei a Xty£(j ■!T£(piiK£:vai o-taurdi/ im TOiavTm i6(x>6rti', S PovXei 
(Paytii', Ttpdrov aVTo; dTTOKTCivov' dXX' aOrds iia acavTOv, ptr] 
Xpn<ya.ptvoi KoniSi, prjSl Tvaaio) tivi, p^ii nsXtKU. dWa ojj 
XvKOt Kal tipKTOi Kal Xcuircf aiiTol uj ioOiovai (jtovcvovaw , 
UveXe it'iypari (Sovv ij aro^taTi ovu, )) apva 5) \ay(Mi>, 6iappr}^ov, 
Kal (pays Trpoanrcaiov cti i^CjuTOi ojj tKUva. 

***** 

'HufTs 6i ovToi; iv Tw piaiipovoi Tp"(pSptev, looTe oipov to 
Kpiaq -npoaayopdmpitv , UTa ixbuiii rrpo; aVTC to Kpcag Scoptda, 
dfapiyuvi/TC; tXaiov, olvov, pi\t, yapov, b^og ri&iapatsi 
'ZvpLOKois, AppaiiiKoXg, oJancp Oj/rw{ VLKphv h'Tajpia(,ovTes. 
Kal yap ovroig avTOJu iiaXvOhroiV Kal paXaxOci'TOfv Koi npo- 
7701/ Tivd KpKmantvToyv tpyov iarl nV ttc<Jjw /fparijjcii, Kal 
SiaKpaTrjOtiaiji 6i dciva; PapvTrjTOi cpsiioiu xal waiodcis 
dTTCipias. 

* » » * « 

Oiirco rd rp'^TOv aypwv n ^wov tfipdQri Kal KaKOvpyov 
clra opvi; nj ») t'xfJus riX/ccerTO" xal yzvopevot', o\>ro> /cat 
npoepeXh-riaav iv iK^ivoi; to ftKOvv inl fiouv ipyaTnv rjXOc, 
Kal TO Koapov -npofiaTOV, koi top oiKOvpovv aXcKTpvoi/a' koI 
KarapiKpov ovto) Ti]v duXriaTiav tovwotoitcj, inl CT(payas 
dvdpiiKOiv, Kai ^6vov$f xal voXspov; vpor\XQov, 

nXoBT. Tiipl T^j JLapKoipayiai, 



NOTE ON QUEEN MAB. 



BY THE EDITOR 



Shellet was eighteen when he wrote " Queen 
Mab :" he never published it. When it was 
written, he had come to the decision that he was 
too young to be a "judge of controversies ;" and 
he was desirous of acquiring "that sobriety of 
spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism." 
But he never doubted the truth or utility of his 
opinions ; and in printing and privately distribut- 
ing " Queen Mab" he believed that he should fur- 
ther their dissemination, without occasioning the 
mischief either to others or himself that might 
arise from publication. It is doubtful whether he 
would himself have admitted it uito a collection 
of his works. His severe classical taste, refined 
by the constant study of the Greek poets, might 



have discovered defects that escape the ordinary 
reader, and the change his opinions underwent in 
many points, would have prevented him from put- 
ting forth the speculations of his boyish days. 
But the poem is too beautiful in itself, and far tod 
remarkable as the production of a boy of eighteen, 
to allow of its being passed over: besides that 
having been frequently reprinted, the omission 
would be vain. In the former edition certain por- 
tions were left out, as shocking the general reader 
from the violence of their attack on religion. I 
myself had a painful feeling that such erasures 
might be looked upon as a mark of disrespect to- 
wards the author, and am glad to have the oppor- 
tunity of restoring them. The notes also are 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON QUEEN MAB. 



57 



reprinted entire ; not because they are models of 
reasoning or lessons of truth ; but because Shelley 
wrote them. And that all that a man, at once so 
distinguished and so excellent, ever did, deserves 
to be preserved. The alterations his opinions 
underwent ought to be recorded, for they form his 
history. 

A series of articles was published in the " New 
Monthly Magazine," during the autumn of the 
year 1832, written by a man of great talent, a 
follow collegian and warm friend of Shelley : they 
describe admirably the state of bis mind during 
his collegiate life. Inspired with ardour for the 
acquisition of knowledge ; endowed with the 
keenest sensibility, and with the fortitude of a 
martyr, Shelley came among his fellow-creatures, 
congregated for the purposes of education, like a 
spirit from another sphere, too delicately organized 
for the rough treatment man uses towards man, 
especially in the season of youth ; and too resolute 
in carrying out his own sense of good and justice 
not to become a victim. To a devoted attachment 
to those he loved, he added a determined resist- 
ance to oppression. Refusing to fag at Eton, he 
was treated with revolting cruelty by masters and 
boys : this roused, instead of taming his spirit, and 
he rejected the duty of obedience, when it was 
enforced by menaces and punishment. To aver- 
sion to the society of his fellow-creatures, such as 
he found them when collected together in socie- 
ties, where one egged on the other to acts of 
tyranny, was joined the deepest sympathy and 
compassion ; while the attachment he felt for in- 
dividuals and the admiration with which he re- 
garded their powers and their virtues, led him to 
entertain a high opinion of the perfectibility of 
human nature, and he believed that all could 
reach the highest grade of moral improvement, did 
not the customs and prejudices of society foster 
evil passions, and excuse evil actions. 

The oppression which, trembling at every nerve 
yet resolute to heroism, it was his ill fortune to 
encounter at school and at college, led him to dis- 
sent in all things from those whose ai'guments 
were blows, whose faith appeared to engender 
blame and hatred. " During my existence," he 
wrote to a friend in 1812, "I have incessantly 
speculated, thought, and read." His readings 
were not always well chosen ; among them were 
the works of the French philosophers; as far as 
metaphysical argument went, he temporarily be- 
came a convert. At the same time, it was the 
cardinal article of his faith, that if men were but 
taught and induced to treat their fellows with love, 
charity, and equal rights, this earth would realize 
Paradise. He looked upon religion as it is pro- 



fessed, and, above all, practised, as hostile, instead 
of friendly, to the cultivation of those virtues, 
which would make men brothers. 

Can this be Wondered at 1 At the age of se- 
venteen, fragile in health and frame, of the purest 
habits in morals, full of devoted generosity and 
universal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain 
wisdom, resolved at every personal sacrifice to do 
right, burning with a desire for affection and sym- 
pathy, — he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth 
as a criminal. 

The cause was, that he was sincere; that he 
believed the opinions which he entertained, to be 
true ; and he loved truth with a martyr's love : he 
was ready to sacrifice station and fortune, and his 
dearest affections, at its shrine. The sacrifice was 
demanded from, and made by, a youth of seven- 
teen. It is a singular fact in the history of society 
in the civilized nations of modem times, that no 
false step is so irretrievable as one made in early 
3^outh. Older men, it is true, when they oppose 
their fellows, and transgress ordinary rules, carry a 
certain prudence or hypocrisy as a shield along 
with them. But youth is rash ; nor can it imagine, 
while asserting what it believes to be true, and 
doing what it believes to be right, that it should be 
denounced as vicious, and pursued as a criminal. 

Shelley possessed a quality of mind which ex- 
perience has shown me to be of the rarest occur- 
rence among human beings: this was his un- 
worldliness. The usual motives that rule men, 
prospects of present or future advantage, the rank 
and fortune of those around, the taunts and cen- 
sures, or the praise of those who were hostile to 
him, had no influence whatever over his actions, 
and apparently none over his thoughts. It is 
difficult even to express the simplicity and direct- 
ness of purpose that adorned him. Some few 
might be found in the liistory of mankind, and 
some one at least among his own friends, equally 
disinterested and scornful, even to severe personal 
sacrifices, of every baser motive. But no one, I 
believe, ever joined this noble but passive virtue 
to equal active endeavours, for the benefit of his 
friends and mankind in general, and to equal 
power to produce the advantages he desired. The 
world's 'brightest gauds, and its most solid advan- 
tages, were of no worth in his eyes, when com- 
pared to the cause of what he considered truth, 
and the good of his fellow-creatures. Born in a 
position which, to his inexperienced mind, afforded 
the greatest facilities to practise the tenets he es- 
poused, he boldly declared the use he would make 
of fortune and station, and enjoyed the belief that 
he should materially benefit his fellow-creatures 



58 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON QUEEN MAB. 



by his actions; while, conscious of surpassmg 
powers of reason and imagination, it is not strange 
that he should, even while so young, have believed 
that his written thoughts would . tend to dissemi- 
nate opinions, which he believed conducive to the 
happiness of the human race. 

If man were a creature devoid of passion, he 
might have said and done all this with quietness. 
But he was too enthusiastic, and too full of hatred 
of all the ills he witnessed, not to scorn danger. 
Various disappointments tortured, but could not 
tame, liis soul. The more enmity he met, the 
more earnestly he became attached to his peculiar 
views, and hostile to those of the men who perse- 
cuted him. 

He was animated to gi'eater zeal by compassion 
for his fellow-creatures. His sympathy was ex- 
cited by the misery with which the world is burst- 
ing. He witnessed the suffermgs of the poor, and 
was aware of the evils of ignorance. He desired 
to induce every rich man to despoil himself of su- 
perfluity, and to create a brotherhood of property 
and service, and was ready to be the first to lay 
dowii the advantages of his birth. He was of too 
uncompromising a disposition to join any party. 
He did not in his youth look forward to gradual 
improvement: nay, in those days of intolerance, 
now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look 
for^vard to the sort of millennium of freedom and 
brotherhood, which he thought the proper state of 
mankind, as to the present reign of moderation 
and improvement. Ill health made him believe 
that his race would soon be run ; that a year or 
two was all he had of life. He desired that these 
years should be useful and illustrious. He saw, in 
a fervent call on his fellow-creatures to share alike 
the blcssmgs of the creation, to love and serve each 
other, the noblest work that life and time permitted 
him. In this spirit he composed Queen Mab. 

He was a lover of the wonderful and wild in 
Uterature ; but had not fostered these tastes at their 
genuhie sources — the romances and chivahy of the 
midelle ages ; but in the perusal of such German 
works as were current in those days. Under the 
influence of these, he, at the age of fifteen, wrote 
two short prose romances of slender merit. The 
sentiments and language were exaggerated, the 
composition imitative and poor. He wrote also a 
poem on the subject of Ahasuerus — ^being led to it 
by a German fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, 
in Lincoln's-inn-Fields. This fell aftcnvards into 
other hands — and was considerably altered before 
it was pruited. Our earlier English poetiy was 
almost unknovm to him. The love and knowledge 
of nature developed by Wordsworth — ^the lofty me- 



lody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge's poetry — 
and the wild fantastic machinery and gorgeous 
scenery adopted by Southey, composed his favourite 
reading ; the rhythm of Queen Mab was founded 
on that of Thalaba, and the first few lines bear a 
striking resemblance in spuit, though not in idea, 
to the opening of that poem. His fertile imagination 
and ear, tuned to the finest sense of harmony, pre- 
served him fi'om imitation. Another of his favourite 
books was the poem of Gebir, by Walter Savage 
Landor. From his boyhood he had a wonderful 
facility of versification wliich he carried into another 
language, and his Latin school verses were com- 
posed with an ease and correctness that procured for 
him prizes — and caused him to be resorted to by 
all his friends for help. He was, at the period of 
vnriting Queen Mab, a great traveller within the 
limits of England, Scotland, and Ireland. His time 
was spent among the lovehest scenes of these coun- 
tries. Mountain and lake and forest were his home ; 
the phenomena of nature were his favourite study. 
He loved to inqube into their causes, and was ad- 
dicted to pursuits of natural philosophy and chemis- 
try, as far as they could be carried on, as an amuse- 
ment. These tastes gave truth and vivacity to liis 
descriptions, and warmed his soul with that deep 
admuation for the wonders of Nature wlrich con- 
stant association with her inspired. 

He never intended to publish Queen Mab as it 
stands ; but a few years after, when printing Alas- 
tor, he extracted a small portion wliich he entitled 
« The Daemon of the World :" in this he changed 
somewhat the versification — and made other altera- 
tions scarcely to be called improvements. 

I extract the invocation of Queen Mab to the 
Soul of lanthe, as altered in " The Daemon of the 
World." I give it as a specimen of the alterations 
made. It well characterizes Ms own state of mind : 

INVOCATION. 



Maiden, the world's supremest spirit 
Beneath the shadow of her wings 
Folds all thy memory doth inherit 
From ruin of divincst things, 

Feelings that lure thee to betray. 
And light of thoughts that pass away. 

For thou hast earned a mighty boon ; 
The truths wliich wisest poets see 
Dimly, thy mind may make its own, 
Rewarding its own majesty, 

Entranced in some diviner mood 
Of self-oblivious soUtude. 

Custom and faith and power thou spurnest, 
From hate and fear thy heart is f^ee ; 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON QUEEN MAB. 



59 



Anient and pure as day thou burnest 
For dark and cold mortalit)' ; 
A living light to cheer it long, 
The watch-fires of the world among. 

Therefore, from nature's inner shrine. 

Where gods and fiends in worship bend, 
Majestic Spirit, be it thine 

The flame to seize, the veil to rend, 
Where the vast snake Eternity 
In charmed sleep doth ever lie. 

All that inspires thy voice of love. 
Or speaks in thy unclosing eyes 
Or through thy fi-ame doth burn and move 
Or think, or feel, awake, arise ! 
Spirit, leave for mine and me 
Earth's unsubstantial mimicry ! 

Some years after, when in Italy, a bookseller 
pubUshed an edition of Queen Mab as it originally 
stood. Shelley was hastily written to by his friends, 
under the idea that, deeply injurious as the mere 
distribution of the poem had proved, the publication 
might awaken fi-esh persecutions. At the sugges- 
tion of these fiiends he WTote a letter on the sub- 
ject, printed in " The Examiner" newspaper — 
with wliich I close this history of his earliest work. 

TO THE EDITOR OF " THE EXAMINER." 

« Sir, 

« Having heard that a poem, entitled ' Queen 
Mab,' has been surreptitiously published in London, 
and that legal proceedhigs have been instituted 
against the publisher, I request the favour of your 
insertion of the following explanation of the affair, 
as it relates to me. 

« A poem entitled ' Queen Mab,' was written by 
me, dt the age of eighteen, I dare say in a suffi- 



ciently intemperate spirit — ^but even then was not 
intended for publication, and a few copies only 
were struck ofl; to be distributed among my per- 
sonal friends. I have not seen this production for 
several years ; I doubt not but that it is perfectly 
worthless m point of literary composition.; and that 
in all that concerns moral and political speculation, 
as well as in the subtler discriminations, of meta- 
physical and religious doctrine, it is still more crude 
and immature. I am a devoted enemy to religious, 
political, and domestic oppression ; and I regi'ct tliis 
publication not so much from literary vanity, as be- 
cause I fear it is better fitted to injure than to serve 
the sacred cause of fi-eedom. I have directed my 
solicitor to apply to Chancery for an injunction to 
restrain the sale ; but after the precedent of Mr. 
Southey's « Wat Tyler,' (a poem, written, I believe, 
at the same age, and with the same vuireflectmg 
enthusiasm,) with little hope of success. 

" Whilst I exonerate myself from all share in 
having divulged opinions hostile to existing sanc- 
tions, under the form, whatever it may be, which 
they assmne in this poem ; it is scarcely necessary 
for me to protest against the system of inculcating 
the truth of Christianity or the excellence of Mon- 
archy, however excellent they may be, by such 
equivocal arguments as confiscation and imprison- 
ment, and mvective and slander, and the insolent 
violation of the most sacred ties of nature and 
society. 

"Sir, 

" I am your obhged and obedient servant, 

"Percy B. Sueleet. 
" Pisa, June 22, 1821." 



END OF QUEEN MAB. 



ALASTOH; 



OK, 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, qua;rebani quid amarem anians amare, 

Confess. St. Jlu^ust. 



PREFACE. 



The poem entitled " Alastor," may be con- 
sidered as allegorical of one of the most interesting 
situations of the human mind. It represents a 
youth of uncorrupted feelings and adventurous 
genius, led forth by an imagination inflamed and 
purified through familiarity with all that is excel- 
lent and majestic, to the contemplation of the 
universe. He drinks deep of the fountains of 
knowledge, and is still insatiate. The magnificence 
and beauty of the external world sinks profoundly 
into the frame of his ^conceptions, and affords to 
their modifications a variety not to be exhausted. 
So long as it is possible for his desires to point 
towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured, he 
is joyous, and tranquil, and self-possessed. But 
the period arrives when these objects cease to suf- 
fice. His mind is at length suddenly awakened, 
and thirsts for intercourse with an intelligence 
similar to itself. He images to himself the Being 
whom he loves. Conversant with speculations of 
the sublimest and most perfect natures, the vision 
in which he embodies his own imaginations, unites 
all of wonderful, or wise, or beautiful, which the 
poet, the philosopher, or the lover, could depictiu-e. 
The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the 
ftmctions of sense, have their respective requisitions 
on the sympathy of corresponding powers in other 
human beings. The Poet is represented as uniting 
these requisitions, and attaching them to a single 
image. He seeks in vain for a prototype of his 
conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he 
descends to an untimely grave. 

The picture is not barren of instruction to actual 
men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was 
avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion 
pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power 
which strikes the luminaries of the world with 
sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening 
them to too exquisite a perception of its influences, 
dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those meaner 
spirits that dare to abjure its dominion. Their 
destiny is more abject and inglorious, as their de- 
linquency is more contemptible and pernicious. 
They who, deluded by no generous error, instigated 
by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped 
(60) 



by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on 
this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet 
keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, re- 
joicing neither in human joy nor mourning with 
human grief; these, and such as they, have their 
apportioned curse. They langiiish, because none 
feel with them their common nature. They are 
morally dead. They are neither friends, nor 
lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor 
benefactors of their country. Among those who 
attempt to exist without human sympathy, the 
pure and tender-hearted perish through the in- 
tensity and passion of their search after its com- 
munities, when the vacancy of their spirit suddenly 
makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind, and 
torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who con- 
stitute, together with their own, the lasting misery 
and loneliness of the world. Those who love not 
their fellow-beings, live unfruitful lives, and pre- 
pare for their old age a miserable grave. 

The good die first. 
And those whose hearts are dry as summer's dust 
Burn to the socket '. 

December 14, 1815. 



Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 
If our great Mother have imbued my soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recomj)ense the boon with mine ; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ; 
If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 
And winter robing with pure snow and crowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; 
If spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes 
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still loved 
And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive 
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 
No portion of yoiu wonted favour now ! 

Mother of this unfathomable world ! 
Favour my solemn song, for I have loved 



ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



61 



Thee ever, and thee only ; I ha,ve watched 

Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, 

And my heart ever gazes on the depth 

Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed 

In charnels and on coffins, where black death 

Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, 

Hoping to still these obstinate questionings 

Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, 

Thy messenger, to render up the tale 

Of what we are. In lone and silent hours. 

When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, 

Like an inspired and desperate alchymist 

Staking his veiy life on some dark hope, 

Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks 

With my most innocent love, until strange tears 

Uniting with those breathless kisses, made 

Such magic as compels the charmed night 

To render up thy charge : and, though ne'er yet 

Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary ; 

Enough from incommunicable dream. 

And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, 

Has shone within me, that serenely now 

And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre 

Suspended in the solitary dome 

Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 

I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that my strain 

May modulate with murmurs of the air, 

And motions of the forests and the sea. 

And voice of living beings, and woven hymns 

Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. 

There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 
No human hands with pious reverence reared, 
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds 
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid 
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness ; 
A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden decked 
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, 
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : 
Gentle, and brave, and generous, no lorn bard 
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh : 
He lived, he died, he sang in solitude. 
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes. 
And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined 
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to bum, 
And Silence too, enamoured of that voice. 
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 

By solemn vision and bright silver dream, 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air, 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 
The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirsting lips ; and all of great, 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had past, he left 
His cold fireside and alienated home. 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness 
Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has bought 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, 
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps 
He, like her shadow, has pursued, where'er 



The red volcano overcanopies 

Its fields of snow, and pinnacles of ice 

With burning smoke : or where bitumen lakes, 

On black bare pointed islets ever beat 

With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves, 

Rugged and dark, winding among the springs, 

Of fire and poison, inaccessible 

To avarice or pride, their starry domes 

Of diamond and of gold expand above 

Numberless and immeasurable halls. 

Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines 

Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysoHte. 

Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 

Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven 

And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims 

To love and wonder ; he would linger long 

In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, 

Until the doves and squirrels would partake 

From his innocuous hand his bloodless food, 

Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks. 

And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er 

The dry leaf rustles ill the brake, suspend 

Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form 

More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step, 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste 
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
Of Babj'lon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk. 
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx. 
Dark Ethiopia on her desert hills . 
Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, 
Stupendous columns, and wild images 
Of more than man, where marble demons watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, 
He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth, through the long burning day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when the 

moon 
Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. 

Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food. 
Her daily portion, from her father's tent. 
And spread her matting for his couch, and stole 
From duties and repose to tend his steps : — • 
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love: — and watched his nightly sleep, 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath 
Of innocent dreams arose : then, when red mom 
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home, 
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned. 

The Poet wandering on, through Arable 
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, 
And o'er the aerial mountains which pour down 
F 



62 



ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, 
In joy and exultation held his way ; 
Till in the vale of Cachmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entmne 
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he sti'ctched 
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet 
Had flushed his cheeks. He dreamed a veiled maid 
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. 
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul 
Heard in the calm of thought ; its music long, 
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme, 
And lofty hopes of divine liberty, 
Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy. 
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
Of her pure mind Idndled through all her frame 
A permeating fire : wild numbers 'then 
She raised, with voice stifled in ti-emulous sobs 
Subdued by its own pathos : her fair hands 
Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp 
Strange symphony, and in their branching veins 
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 
The beating of her heart was heard to fill 
The pauses of her music, and her breath 
Tumultuously accorded with those fits 
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, 
As if her heart impatiently endured 
Its bursting burden : at the sound he turned, 
And saw by the warm light of their own life 
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil 
Of woven wind ; her outspread arms now bare, 
Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, 
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. 
His strong heart sank and sickened with excess 
Of love. He reared his shuddering hmbs and 

quelled 
His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet 
Her panting bosom : — she drew back awhile. 
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy. 
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry 
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night 
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; sleep, 
Like a dark flood suspended in its course, 
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. 

Roused by the shock, he started fi-om his trance — 

The cold white light of morning, the blue moon 

Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, 

The distinct valley and the vacant woods, [fled 

Spread round him where he stood. Whither have 

The hues of heaven that canopied his bower 

Of yesternight 1 The sounds that soothed his sleep. 

The mystery and the majesty of Earth, 

The joy, the exultation 1 His wan eyes 

Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 

As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. 

The spirit of sweet human love has sent 

A vision to the sleep of him who spurned 

Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 



Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade ; 
He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 
Were limbs and breath and being intertwined 
Thus treacherously ] Lost, lost, for ever lost. 
In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 
That beautiful shape ! Does the dark gate of death 
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
Sleep ] Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds, 
And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake. 
Lead only to a black and watery depth, [hung. 
While death's blue vault with loathliest vapours 
Where every shade which the foul grave exhales 
Hides its dead eye from the detested day, 
Conduct, Sleep, to thy dehghtful realms ! 
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart. 
The insatiate hope which it awakened, stung 
His brain even like despair. 

While daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the passion came. 
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream. 
And shook him from his rest, and led him forth 
Into the darkness. — As an eagle grasped 
In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast 
Burn with the poison, and precipitates [cloud. 

Through night and day, tempest, and calm and 
Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight 
O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus driven 
By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, 
Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night, 
Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells. 
Startling with careless step the moonlight snake. 
He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight, 
Shedding the mockery of its vital hues 
Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on. 
Till vast Aornos, seen from Petra's steep. 
Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud; 
Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs 
Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind 
Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on. 
Day after day, a weary waste of hours, 
Bearing within his life the brooding care 
That ever fed on its decaying flame. 
And now his limbs were lean ; his scattered hair, 
Sered by the autumn of strange suffering. 
Sung dirges in the wind ; his listless hand 
Hung like dead bone within its withered skin ; 
Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone 
As in a furnace burning secretly 
From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, 
Who ministered with human charity 
His human wants, beheld with wondering awe 
Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer. 
Encountering on some dizzy precipice 
That spectral fonn, deemed that the Spirit of wind 
With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet 
Disturbing not the drifting snow, had paused 
In his career : the infant would conceal 
His troubled visage in his mother's robe 
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes. 
To remember their strange light in many a dream 
Of after times ; but youthful maidens, taught 
By nature, would interpret half the wo 
That wasted him, would call him with false names 



ALASTOR; OR, THE SRIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



63 



Brother, and friend, would press his pallid hand 
At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path 
Of his departure from their father's door. 

, At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore 
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste 
Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged 
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there, 
Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. 
It rose as he approached, and with strong wings 
Scaled the upward sky, bent its bright course 
High over the immeasurable main. 
His eyes pursued its flight: — ^"Thou hast a home, 
Beautiful bird ! thou voyagest to thine home, 
Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck 
With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes 
Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. 
And what am I that I should linger here. 
With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes, 
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned 
To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers 
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven 
That echoes not my thoughts ]" A gloomy smile 
Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips. 
For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly 
Its precious charge, and silent death exposed, 
Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure. 
With doubtful smile mocking its own strange 
charms. 

Startled by his own thoughts, he looked around : 
There was no fair liend near him, not a sight 
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. 
A little shallop floating near the shore 
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. 
It had been long abandoned, for its sides 
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints 
Swayed with the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark 
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste ; 
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves 
The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunny : sea and sky 
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind 
Swept sti-ongly from the shore, blackening the 
Following his eager soul, the wanderer [waves. 
Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft 
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat. 
And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea 
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 

Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds 

Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 

Along the dark and rufllcd waters fled 

The straining boat. — A whirlwind swept it on, 

W^ith fierce gusts and precipitating force. 

Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. 

The waves arose. Higher and higher still 

Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's 

scourge 
Like serpent's struggling in a vulture's grasp. 
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 
Of wave running on wave, and blast on blast 



Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven 
With dark obliterating course, he sate : 
As if their genii were the ministers 
Appointed to conduct him to the light 
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate 
Holding the steady helm. Evening came on, 
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues 
High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray 
That canopied his path o'er the waste deep ; 
Twilight, ascending slowl}' from the east. 
Entwined in duslder wreaths her braided locks 
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of day ; 
Night followed, clad with stars. On every side 
More horribly the multitudinous streams 
Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war 
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock 
The calm and spangled sky. The little boat 
Still fled before the storm ; still fled, like foam 
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river; 
Now pausing on the edgcof the riven wave; 
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely fled — 
As if that frail and wasted human form 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
The moon arose : and lo ! the ethereal cliffs 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
Among the stars like sunlight, and around 
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves. 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly. 
Rage and resound for ever. — 'Who shall save 1 — • 
The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent drove, — 
The crags closed round with black and jagged arms. 
The shattered mountain overhung the sea. 
And faster still, beyond all human speed, 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave. 
The little boat was driven. A cavern there 
Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths 
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on 
With unrelaxing speed. « Vision and Love !" 
The Poet cried aloud, " I have beheld 
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death 
Shall not divide us long." 

The boat pursued 
The vdndings of the cavern. Daylight shone 
At length upon that gloomy river's flow ; 
Now, where the fiercest war among the waves 
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream [riven. 

The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, 
Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, 
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass 
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm ; 
Stair above stair the eddying waters rose. 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled roots 
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms 
In darkness over it. I' the midst was left. 
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. 
Seized by the sway of the ascending stream. 
With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, and round. 



64 



ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, 

Till on the verge of the extremest curve, 

Where through an opening of the rocky bank, 

The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 

Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides 

Is left, the boat paused shuddering. Shall it sink 

Down the abyss 1 Shall the reverting stress 

Of that resistless gulf enjbosom it ] 

Now shall it fall 1 A wandering stream of wind, 

Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded 

And, lo ! the gentle motion between banks [sail. 

Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, 

Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark ! 

The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar, 

With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. 

Where the embowering trees recede, and leave 

A little space of gi-een expanse, the cove 

Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers 

For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes, 

Reflected in the crystal* calm. The wave 

Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task, 

Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind. 

Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay 

Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed 

To deck with their bright hues his withered hair. 

But on his heart its solitude returned. 

And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid 

In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy 

Had yet performed its ministry ; it hung [frame 

Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 

Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods 

Of night close over it. 

The noonday sun 
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass 
Of mingling shade, whose bro-wn magnificence 
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, 
Scooped in the dark base of those aery rocks 
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever. 
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves 
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, 
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank, 
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark 
And dark the shades accumulate — the oak, 
Expanding its immense and knotty arms, 
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids 
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame 
Most solemn domes within, and far below, 
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
The ash and the acacia floating hang [clothed 
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents. 
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, 
Starr'd with ten thousand blossoms, flow around 
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes. 
With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles. 
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love, 
These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs 
Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves 
Make net-work of the dark blue light of day. 
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable 
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns 
Beneath these canopies extend their swells. 
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with 
Minute, yet beautiful. One darkest glen [blooms 



Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with 
A soul-dissolving odour, to invite [jasmine. 

To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell. 
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep 
Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades. 
Like vaporous shapes half-seen ; beyond, a well, 
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave. 
Images all the woven boughs above. 
And each depending leaf, and every speck 
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms ; 
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star 
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, 
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon. 
Or gorgeous insect, floating motionless. 
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. 

Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 
Their own wan light through the reflected lines 
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth 
Of that still fountain ; as the human heart, 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave. 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He hejtrd 
The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung 
Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel 
An unaccustomed presence, and the sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed 
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright robes 
Of shadowy silver or enshrining light 
Borrow'd from aught the visible world affords 
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; — 
But undulating woods, and silent well, 
And rippling rivulet, and evening gloom 
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech as- 
Held commune with him, as if he and it [suming 
Were all that was, — only — when his regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness, — ^two eyes, 
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, 
And seemed with their serene and azure smiles 
To beckon him. 

Obedient to the light 
That shone wdthin his soul, he went, pursuing 
The wmdings of the dell. — The rivulet 
Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine 
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell 
Among the moss, with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones 
It danced ; like childhood laughing as it went : 
Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings 
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud [crept. 
That overhung its quietness. — " O stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound. 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend 1 
Thou imagcst my life. Thy darksome stillness, 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs. 
Thy scarchless fountain, and invisible course 
Have each their type in me: And the wide sky, 
And measureless ocean may declare as soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 
Contains thy waters, as the universe 
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when 
stretched 



ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



65 



Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste 
I' the passing wind!" 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did impress 
On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As 

one 
Roused by some joyous madness from the couch 
Of fever, he did move ; yet, not like him, 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame 
Of his frail exultation Shall be spent. 
He must descend. With rapid steps he went 
Beneath the shade of trees, beside tlie flow 
Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and now 
The forest's solemn canopies were changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky, 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and 

stemmed 
The struggling brook : tall spires of windlestrae 
Threw their thin shadows dov^rn the rugged slope, 
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines 
Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping 

roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here. 
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away, 
Tlie smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows tliin 
And white ; and where irradiate dewy eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : so from his steps 
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade 
Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds 
And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued 
The stream that with a larger volume now 
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; and therej 
Fretted a path through its descending curves 
With Hs wintry speed. On every side now rose 
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms. 
Lifted their black and ban-en pinnacles 
In the light of evening, and its precipice 
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 
'Mid toppling stoneSj black gulfs, and yawning caves. 
Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues 
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass expands 
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, 
And seems, with its accumulated crags. 
To overhang the world : for wide expand 
Beneath the wan stars and descending moon 
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams. 
Dim tracks and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom 
Of leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills 
Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge 
Of the remote horizon. The near scene, 
In naked and severe simplicity. 
Made contrast with the universe. A pine, 
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy 
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast 
Yielding one only response, at each pause. 
In most familiar cadence, with the howl 
The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams 
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river, 
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, 
Fell into that immeasurable void,' 
Scattering its waters to the passing winds. 
Yet the gray precipice, and solemn pine 
And torrent were not all ; — one silent nook 
9 



Was there. Even on the edge of that vast moun- 

Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks, [tain 

It overlooked in its serenity 

The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars. 

It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile 

Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 

The fissm'ed stones with its entwining arms, 

And did embower with leaves for ever green, 

And berries dark, the smooth and even space 

Of its inviolatcd floor, and here 

The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore, 

In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose decay, 

Red, yellow, or etherially pale. 

Rival the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt 

Of eveiy gentle wind, whose breath can teach 

The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, 

One human step alone, has ever broken 

The stillness of its solitude : — one voice 

Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that voice 

Which hither came, floating among the winds, 

And led the loveliest among human fonns 

To make tlieir wild haunts the depository 

Of all the gi-ace and beauty that endued 

Its motions, render up its majesty. 

Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm. 

And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould. 

Nurses of rainbow flowers and hranching moss, 

Commit the colours of that varying cheek. 

That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes. 

The dim and homed moon hung low, and poured 

A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 

That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist 

Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank 

Wan moonlight even to frflness : not a star 

Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds 

Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice 

Slept, clasped in his embrace. — 0, storm of death ! 

Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night: 

And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 

Guiding its iiTesistible career 

In thy devastating onmipotcnce. 

Art king of this frail world, from the red field 

Of slaughter, from the recking hospital. 

The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed 

Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, 

A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls 

His brother Death. A rare and regal prey 

He hath prepared, prowling around the world ; 

Glutted with which thou ma)''st repose, and men 

Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms, 

Nor ever more oifcr at thy dark shrine 

The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 

When on the threshold of the green recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death 
Was on him. Yet a Uttlc, ere it fled. 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past. 
That paused \vitliin his passive being now, 
Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe 
Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place 
His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk 
Of the old pine. Upon an i\'ied stone 
Reclined his languid head, his limbs did rest. 



66 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON ALASTOR. 



Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink 

Of that obscurest chasm ; — and thus he lay, 

Surrendering to their final impulses 

The hovering powers of life. Hope and despair, 

The torturers, slept : no mortal pain or fear 

Man-cd his repose, the influxes of sense, 

And his own being unalloyed by pain. 

Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 

The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there 

At peace, and faintly smiling : — his last sight 

Was the great moon, which o'er the western line 

Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended, 

With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed 

To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 

It rests, and still as the divided frame 

Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, 

That ever beat in mystic sympathy 

With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still : 

And when two lessening points of light alone 

Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp 

Of his faint respiration scarce did stir 

The stagnate night : — till the minutest ray 

Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart. 

It paused — it fluttered. But when heaven remamed 

Utterly black, the murky shades involved 

An image, silent, cold, and motionless. 

As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. 

Even as a vapour fed with golden beams 

That ministered on sunlight, ere the west 

Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame — 

No sense, no motion, no divinity — • 

A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings 

The breath of heaven did wander — a bright stream 

Once fed with many-voiced waves — a dream 

Of youth, which night and time have quenched for 

ever. 
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now. 

O, for Medea's wondrous alchymy. 
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam 
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs 

exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! 0, that God, 
Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice 



Which but one living man has drained, who now, 

Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels 

No proud exemption in the blighting curse 

He bears, over the world wanders for ever. 

Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the dream 

Of dark magician in hisvisioned cave, 

Raking the cinders of a crucible 

For life and power, even when his feeble hand 

Shakes in its last decay, were the true law 

Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled 

Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn 

Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ! 

The brave, the gentle, and the beautifril. 

The child of grace and genius. Heartless things 

Are done and said i' the world, and many worms 

And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth 

From sea and mountain, city and wilderness. 

In vesper low or joyous orison. 

Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou art fled — • 

Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes 

Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee 

Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 

Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips 

So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes 

That image sleep in death, upon that fomi 

Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear 

Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when those 

Are gone, and those divincst lineaments, [hues 

Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone 

In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 

Let not high verse, mourning the memory 

Of that which is no more, or pamting's wo 

Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 

Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, 

And all the shows o' the world, arc frail and vain 

To weep a loss that turns their light to shade. 

It is a wo " too deep for tears," when all 

Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, 

Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves 

Those who remain behind nor sobs nor groans, 

The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 

But pale despair and cold tranquillity, 

Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, 

Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. 



NOTE ON ALASTOR. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



" Aiastor" is wi-itten in a very diflcrent tone 
from " Queen Mab." In the latter, Shelley pom-ed 
out all the cherished speculations of his youth — all 
the iiTcpressible emotions of sympathy, censure, 
and hope, to wliich the present suffering, and what 
he considers the proper destiny of his fellow-crea- 
tures, gave birth. "Alastor," on the contrary, 
contains an individual interest only. A very few 
years, with their attendant events, had checked 
the ardour of Shelley's hopes, though he still 



thought them well grounded, and that to advance 
their fulfilment was tlie noblest task man could 
achieve. 

This is neither the time nor place to speak of 
the misfortunes that chequered his hfe. It will be 
sufficient to say, that in all he did, he at the time 
of doing it believed himself justified to his ovm 
conscience ; while the various ills of poverty and 
loss of friends brought home to him the sad realities 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON ALASTOR. 



67 



of life. Physical suffering had also considerable 
influence in causing him to turn his e)'es inward ; 
inclining liim rather to brood over the thoughts 
and emotions of his own soul, than to glance 
abroad, and to make, as in " Queen Mab," the 
whole imiverse the object and subject of his song. 
In the spruig of 1815, an eminent physician pro- 
nounced that he was dying rapidly of a consump- 
tion ; abscesses were formed on his lungs, and he 
suffered acute spasms. Suddenly a complete change 
took place; and though through life he was a 
martyr to pain and debility, every symptom of 
pulmonary disease vanished. His nerves, wliich 
nature had formed sensitive to an unexampled de- 
gree, were rendered still more susceptible by the 
state of his health. 

As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened the 
continent, he went abroad. He visited some of 
the more magnificent scenes of Switzerland, and 
returned to England from Lucerne, by the Reuss 
and the Rhine. This river na\'igation enchanted 
him. In his favourite poem of " Thalaba," his 
imagination had been excited by a description of 
such a voyage. In the summer of 1815, after a 
tour along the southern coast of Devonshire and 
a visit to Clifton, he rented a house on Bishopgate 
Heath, on the borders of Windsor Forest, where 
he enjoyed several months of comparative health 
and tranc[uil happiness. The later summer months 



were warm and dry. Accompanied by a few 
friends, he visited the source of the Thames, making 
the voyage in a wherry from Windsor to Crichlade 
His beautiful stanzas in the churchyard of Lech- 
lade were written on that occasion. «Alastor" 
was composed on his return. He spent his days 
under the oak-shades of Windsor Great Park ; and 
the magnificent woodland was a fitting study to 
inspire the various descriptions of forest scenery 
we find in the poem. 

None of Shelley's poems is more characteristic 
than this. The solemn spirit that reigns through- 
out, the worsliip of the majesty of natiu-e, the 
broodings of a poet's heart in solitude — the min- 
gling of the exulting joy which the various aspect 
of the visible universe inspires, with the sad and 
struggling pangs which human passion imparts, 
give a touching interest to the whole. The death 
which he had often contemplated during the last 
months as certain and near, he here represented 
in such colours as had, in his lonely musings, 
soothed his soul to peace. The versification sus- 
tains the solemn spirit which breathes throughout : 
it is peculiarly melodious. The poem ought rather 
to be considered didactic than narrative : it was 
the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied in 
the purest form he could conceive, painted in the 
ideal hues wliich his brilliant imagination inspired, 
and softened by the recent anticipation of death. 



END OF ALASTOR. 



THE EEYOLT OP ISLAM. 

^ Poem. 

IN TWELVE CANTOS. 



Oirai; 6e (iporov eBuo; dy\aiati a-rrTOjxcada 

XleiiaifCi Trpog 'iffXarov 
nXool'" vavrii b' ovrt Tre^ng iu)v av tvpot; 
'Ef vircpjiopmv aywva Oavjiarav bioi/. 



PREFACE. 



The Poem which I now present to the world, 
is an attempt from which I scarcely dare to expect 
success, and in which a writer of established fame 
might fail without disgrace. It is an experiment 
on the temper of the public mind, as to how far 
a thirst for a happier condition of moral and 
political society survives, among the enlightened 
and refined, the tempests which have shaken the 
age in which we live. I have sought to enlist the 
harmony of metrical language, the etherial com- 
binations of the fancy, the rapid and subtle transi- 
tions of human passion, all those elements which 
essentially compose a Poem, in the cause of a 
liberal and comprehensive morality ; and in the 
view of kindling within the bosoms of my readers, 
a virtuous enthusiasm for those doctrines of liberty 
and justice, that faith and hope in something good, 
which neither violence, nor misrepresentation, nor 
prejudice, can ever totally extinguish among 
mankind. 

For this purpose, I have chosen a story of hu- 
man passion in its most universal character, diver- 
sified with moving and romantic adventures, and 
appealing, in contempt of all artificial opinions or 
institutions, to the common sympathies of every 
human breast. I have made no attempt to recom- 
mend the motives which I would substitute for 
those at present governing manliind, by methodical 
and systematic argument. I would only awaken 
the feelings so that the reader should see the 
beauty of true virtue, and be incited to those in- 
quiries which have led to my moral and political 
creed, and that of some of the sublimest intellects in 
the world. The Poem, therefore, (with the excep- 
tion of the first Canto, which is purely mtroduc- 
tory,) is narrative, not didactic. It is a succession 
of pictures illustrating the growth and progress of 
individual mind aspiring after excellence, and de- 
voted to the love of mankind ; its influence in refin- 
ing and maldng pure the most daring and uncommon 
impulses of the imagination, the understanding, 
and the senses ; its impatience at " all the oppres- 
sions which are done imder the sun ;" its tendencv 
(68) 



to awaken public hope and to enlighten and im- 
prove mankind ; the rapid effects of the application 
of that tendency ; the awakening of an immense 
nation from their slavery and dcgi'adation to a true 
sense of moral dignity and freedom ; the bloodless 
dethronement of their oppressors, and the unveiling 
of the religious frauds by which they had been de- 
luded into submission ; the tranquillity of successful 
patriotism, and the universal toleration and benevo- 
lence of true philanthropy ; the treachery and 
barbarity of hired soldiers ; vice not the object of 
punishment and hatred, but kmdness and pity; the 
faithlessness of tyrants; the confederacy of the 
Rulers of the World, and the restoration of the ex- 
pelled Dynasty by foreign arms ; the massacre and 
extermination of the Patriots, and the victory of 
established power ; the consequences of legitimate 
despotism, civil war, fajnine, plague, superstition, 
and an utter extinction of the domestic affections ; 
thci judicial murder of the advocates of Liberty ; 
the temporary triumph of oppression, that secure 
earnest of its final and inevitable fall ; the transient 
nature of ignorance and error, and the eternity of 
genius and virtue. Such is the series of delinea- 
tions of which the Poem consists. And if the 
lofty passions with which it has been my scope to 
distinguish this story, shall not excite in the reader 
a generous impulse, an ardent thirst for excellence, 
an interest profound and strong, such as belongs 
to no meaner desires — let not the failure lie imputed 
to a natural unfitness for human sympathy in these 
sublime and animating themes. It is the business 
of the Poet to communicate to others the pleasure 
and the enthusiasm arising out of those images 
and feeUngs, in the vivid presence of which with his 
owm mind, consists at once his inspiration and his 
reward. 

The panic which, like an epidemic transport, 
seized upon all classes of men during the excesses 
consequent upon the French Revolution, is gradu- 
ally giving place to sanity. It has ceased to be 
believed, that whole generations of mankind ought 
to consign themselves to a hopeless inheritance 
of ignorance and misery, because a nation of men 
who had been dupes and slaves for centuries, were 
incapable of conducting themselves with the wisdom 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



69 



and tranquillity of freemen so soon as some of their 
fetters were partially loosened. That their conduct 
could not have been marked by any other characters 
than ferocity and thoughtlessness, is the historical 
fact from which liberty derives all its recommenda- 
tions, and falsehood the worst features of its de- 
formity. There is a reflux in the tide of human 
things which bears the shipwrecked hopes of men 
into a secure haven, after the storms are past. 
Methinks, those who now live have survived an age 
of despair. 

The French Revolution may be considered as 
one of those manifestations of a general state of 
feeling among civilized mankind, produced by a 
defect of correspondence between the knowledge 
existing in society and the improvement or gradual 
abolition of political institutions. The year 1788 
may be assumed as the epoch of one of the most 
important crises produced by this feeling. The 
sympathies connected with that event extended to 
every bosom. The most generous and amiable 
natures were those which participated the most 
extensively in these sympathies. But such a 
degi-ee of unmingled good was expected, as it was 
impossible to realize. If the Revolution had been 
in every respect prosperous, then misrule and 
superstition would lose half their claims to our ab- 
horrence, as fetters which the captive can unlock 
with the slightest motion of his fingers, and which 
do not eat with poisonous rust into the soul. The 
revulsion occasioned by the atrocities of the dema- 
gogues and the re-establishment of successive 
tyrannies in France was terrible, and felt in the 
remotest corner of the civilized world. Could they 
listen to the plea of reason who had groaned under 
the calamities of a social state, according to the 
provisions of which, one man riots in luxury whilst 
another famishes for want of bread "? Can he who 
the day before was a trampled slave, suddenly be- 
come liberal-minded, forbearing, and independent? 
This is the consequence of the habits of a state 
of society to be produced by resolute perseverance 
and indefatigable hope, and long-suffering and 
long-believing courage, and the systematic efforts 
of generations of men of intellect and virtue. 
Such is the lesson which experience teaches now. 
But on the first reverses of hope in the progress 
of French liberty, the sanguine eagerness for good 
overleaped the solution of these questions, and for 
a time extinguished itself in the unexpectedness 
of their result. Thus many of the most ardent 
and tender-hearted of the worshippers of public 
good have been morally ruined, by what a partial 
glimpse of the events they deplored, appeared to 
show as the melancholy desolation of all their 
cherished hopes. Hence gloom and misanthropy 
have become the characteristics of the age in which 
we live, the solace of a disappointment that un- 
consciously finds relief only in the wilful exaggera- 
tion of its own despair. This influence has tainted 
the literature of the age with the hopelessness of 
the minds from which it flows. Metaphysics,* 

* I oiinht to except Sir W. Drummond's " Academi- 
cal Questions ;" a volume of very acute and powerful 
metaphysical criticism. 



and inquiries into moral and political science, have 
become little else than vain attempts to revive ex- 
ploded superstitions, or sophisms like those* of 
Mr. Malthus, calculated to lull the oppressors of 
mankind into a security of everlasting triumph. 
Our works of fiction and poetry have been over- 
shadowed by the same infectious gloom. But 
mankind appear to me to be emerging from their 
trance. I am aware, methinks, of a slow, gradual, 
silent change. In that belief I have composed the 
following Poem. 

I do not presume to enter into competition with 
our greatest contemporary Poets. Yet I am un- 
willing to tread in the footsteps of any who have 
preceded me. I have sought to avoid the imita- 
tion of any style of language or versification pecu- 
liar to the original minds of which it is the cha- 
racter, designing that even if what I have produced 
be worthless, it should still be properly my own. 
Nor have I permitted any system relating to mere 
words, to divert the attention of the reader from 
whatever mterest I may have succeeded in creating, 
to my own ingenuity in contriving to disgust them 
according to the rules of criticism. I have simply 
clothed my thoughts in what appeared to me the 
most obvious and appropriate language. A person 
familiar with nature, and vvith the most celebrated 
productions of the human mind, can scarcely err 
in following the instinct, with respect to selection 
of language, produced by that familiarity. 

There is an education peculiarly fitted for a Poet, 
without which, genius and sensibility can hardly 
fill the circle of their capacities. No education 
indeed can entitle to this appellation a dull and 
unobservant mind, or one, though neither dull nor 
unobservant, in which the channels of communi- 
cation between thought and expression have been 
obstructed or closed. How far it is my fortune to 
belong to either of the latter classes, I cannot know. 
I aspire to be something better. The circumstances 
of my accidental education have been favourable 
to this ambition. I have been familiar from boy- 
hood with mountains and lakes, and the sea, and 
the solitude of forests : Danger, which sports upon 
the brink of precipices, has been my playmate. I 
have trodden the glaciers of the Alps, and lived 
under the eye of Mont Blanc. I have been a 
wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down 
mighty rivers, and seen the sun rise and set, and 
the stars come forth, whilst I have sailed night and 
day down a rapid stream among mountains. I 
have seen populous cities, and have watched the 
passions which rise and spread, and sink and change, 
amongst assembled multitudes of men. I have 
seen the theatre of the more visible ravages of 
tyranny and war, cities and villages reduced to 
scattered groups of black and roofless houses, and 

* It is remarkable, as a symptom of the revival of 
puMic hope, that Mr. Malthus has assigned, in the later 
editions of liis work, an indefinite dominion to moral 
restraint over the principle of population. This conces- 
sion answers all the inferences from his doctrine un- 
favourable to human improvement and reduces the 
" Essay on Population," to a commentary illustrative 
of the unanswerableness of "Political Justice. 



70 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



the naked inhabitants sitting famished upon their 
desolated thresliolds. I have conversed with hving 
men of genius. The poetry of ancient Greece 
and Rome, and modern Italy, and our own countiy, 
has been to me like external nature, a passion and 
an enjoyment. Such are the sources liom which 
the materials for the imagery of my Poem have 
been drawn. I have considered Poetry in its most 
comprehensive sense, and have read the Poets and 
the Historians, and the Metaphysicians* whose 
wiitings have been accessible to me, and have 
looked upon the beautiful and majestic scenery of 
the earth as common sources of those elements 
which it is the province of the Poet to embody and 
combine. Yet the experience and the feelings to 
which I refer, do not in themselves constitute men 
Poets, but only prepare them to be the auditors of 
those who are. How far I shall be found to pos- 
sess that more essential attribute of Poetry, the 
power of awakening in others sensations like 
those which animate my own bosom, is that which, 
to speak sincerely, I know not ; and which, with 
an acquiescent and contented spirit, I expect to be 
taught by the effect which I shall produce upon 
those whom I now address. 

I have avoided, as I have said before, the imita- 
tion of any contemporary style. But there must 
be a resemblance, which does not depend upon 
their own will, between all the writers of any par- 
ticular age. They cannot escape from subjection 
to a common influence which arises out of an in- 
finite combination of circumstances belonging to 
the times in which they live, though each is in a 
degree the author of the very influence by which 
his being is thus pervaded. Thus, the tragic Poets 
of the age of Pericles; the Italian revivers of an- 
cient learning ; those mighty intellects of our own 
comitry that succeeded the Reformation, the trans- 
lators of the Bible, Shakspeare, Spencer, the Dra- 
matists of the reign of Elizabeth, and Lord Bacon ;t 
the colder spirits of the interval that succeeded ; — 
all resemble each other, and difTer from every other 
in their several classes. In this view of things. 
Ford can no more be called the imitator of Shaks- 
peare, than Shakspeare the imitator of Ford. There 
were perhaps few other points of resemblance be- 
tween these two men, than that which the univer- 
sal and inevitable influence of their age produced. 
And this is an influence v/hich neither the meanest 
scribbler, nor the sublimest genius of any era, can 
escape ; and which I have not attempted to escape. 

I have adopted the stanza of Spencer (a measure 
inexpressibly beautiful,) not because I consider it 
a finer model of poetical harmony than the blank 
verse of Shakspeare and Milton, but because in the 
latter there is no shelter for mediocrity : you must 
either succeed or fail. This perhaps an aspiring 
spirit should desire. But I was enticed, also, by 
the brilliancy and magnificence of sound which a 

* In this sense there may be such a thing as perfecti- 
bility in worlfs of fiction, notwithstanding the conces- 
sion often made by the advocates of human improve- 
ment, that perfectibility is a terra applicable only to 
science. 

t Milton stands alone in the age which he illumined. 



mind that has been nourished upon musical 
thoughts, can produce by a just and harmonious 
aiTangement of the pauses of this measure. Yet 
there will be found some instances where I have 
completely failed in this attempt, and one, which 
I here request the reader to consider as an eiTatum, 
where there is left most inadvertently an alexan- 
drine in the middle of a stanza. 

But in this, as in every other respect, I have 
written fearlessly. It is the misfortune of this 
age, that its Writers, too thoughtless of immortali- 
ty, are exquisitely sensible to temporary praise or 
blame. They write with the fear of Reviews be- 
fore their eyes. This system of criticism sprang 
up in that torpid interval when Poetry was not. 
Poetry, and the art which professes to regulate and 
limit its powers, cannot subsist together. Longinus 
could not have been the contemporary of Homer, 
nor Boileau of Horace. Yet this species of criti- 
cism never presumed to assert an understanding of 
its own : it has always, vmlike true science, fol- 
lowed, not preceded, the opinion of mankind, and 
would even now bribe with worthless adulation 
some of our greatest Poets to impose gratuitous 
fetters on their ov.'n imaginations, and become un- 
conscious accomplices in the daily murder of all 
genius either not so aspiring or not so fortunate as 
their own. I have sought therefore to write, as I 
believe that Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton wrote, 
with an utter disregard of anonymous censure. I 
am certain that calumny and misrepresentation, 
though it may move me to compassion, cannot dis- 
turb my peace. I shall understand the expressive 
silence of those sagacious enemies who dare not 
trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavour to ex- 
tract from the midst of insult, and contempt, and 
maledictions, those admonitions which may tend to 
correct whatever imperfections such ccnsurers may 
discover in this my first serious appeal to the Public. 
If certain Critics were as clear-sighted as they are 
malignant, how great would be the benefit to be 
derived fi-om their virulent writings ! As it is, I 
fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with 
their paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the 
Publicjudge that my composition is worthless, I shall 
indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton 
received his crown of immortality, and shall seek 
to gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which 
may nerve me to some new enterprise of thought 
which may not be worthless. I cannot conceive 
that Lucretius, when he meditated that poem whose 
doctrines are yet the basis of our metaphysical 
knowledge, and whose eloquence has been the 
wonder of mankind, wrote in awe of such cen- 
sure as the hired sophists of the impure and super- 
stitious noblemen of Rome might atlix to what he 
should produce. It was at the period when Greece 
was led captive, and Asia made tributary to the Re- 
public, fast verging itself to slavery and ruin, that 
a multitude of Syrian captives, bigoted to the wor- 
ship of their obscene Ashtaroth, and the unworthy 
successors of Socrates and Zcno, found there a 
precarious subsistence by administering, under the 
name of freedmen, to the vices and the vanities of 
the great. These wretched men were skilled to 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



71 



plead, vvith a superficial but plausible set of so- 
phisms, in favour of that contempt for \nrtue which 
is the portion of slaves, and that faith in portents, 
the most fatal substitute for benevolence in the 
imaginations of men, which, arising from the 
enslaved communities of the East, then first began 
to overwhelm the western nations in its stream. 
Were these the kind of men whose disapprobation 
the wise and lofty-minded Lucretius should have 
regarded with salutary awe 1 The latest and per- 
haps the meanest of those who follow in his foot- 
steps, would disdain to hold life on such condi- 
tions. 

The Poem now presented to the Public occupied 
little more than six months in the composition. 
That period has been devoted to the task with un- 
remitting ardour and enthusiasm. I have exercised 
a watchful and earnest criticism on my work as it 
grew under my hands. I would willingly have 
sent it forth to the world with that perfection which 
long labour and revision is said to bestow. But I 
found that if I should gain something in exactness 
by this method, I might lose much of the newness 
and energy of imagery and language as it flowed 



fi-esh from my mind. And although the mere 
composition occupied no more than six months, the 
thoughts thus aiTanged were slowly gathered in as 
many years. 

I trust that the reader will carefiilly distinguish 
between those opinions which have a dramatic pro- 
priety in reference to the characters which they are 
designed to elucidate, and such as are properly my 
own. The erroneous and degrading idea which 
men have conceived of a Supreme Being, for in- 
stance, is spoken against, but not the Supreme Be- 
ing itself. The belief which some superstitious 
persons whom I have brought upon the stage enter- 
tain of the Deity, as injurious to the character of 
his benevelonce, is widely diflerent from my own. 
In recommending also a great and important change 
in the spirit which animates the social institutions 
of mankind, I have avoided all flatteiy to those 
violent and malignant passions of our nature, which 
are ever on the watch to mingle with and to alloy 
the most beneficial innovations. There is no quarter 
given to Revenge, or Envy, or Prejudice. Love is 
celebrated every where as the sole law wliich 
should govern the moral world. 



DEDICATION. 



There is no danger to a Man, that snows 
What life and death is : there's not any law 
Exceeds his knowledge : neither is it lawful 
That he sliould stoop to any other law. 

Chapman. 



TO MARY 



So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home ; 
As to his Queen some \-ictor Knight of Faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome ; 
N )r thou disdain, that ere my fame become 
A ?tar among the stars of mortal night, 
If i. indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light. 



The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
Is endid — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
With irterlaced branches mix and meet, 
Or wlier? with sound like many voices sweet, 
Water-falls leap among wild islands green, 
Which fiamed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 

III. 

Tloughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, 
when first [pass. 

Tie clouds wliich wrap this world from youth did 
I CO remember well the hour which burst 
M; spirit's sleep : a fresh May-dawn it was, 



When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, 
And wept, I knew not why : until there rose 
From the near school-room, voices, that, alas ! 
Were but one echo from a world of woes — 
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. 

IV. 

And then I clasped my hands and looked around, 
But none was near to mock my streaming eyes, 
Which poured their warm drops on the sunny 

ground — • 
So without shame, I spake : — ■" I will be wise, 
And just, and fi'ee, and mild, if in me lies 
Such power, for I grow weary to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyrannise 
Without reproach or check." I then conti-olled 

My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek 
and bold. 

V. 
And from that hour did I with earnest thought 
Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore. 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught 
I cared to learn, but from that secret store 
Wrought linked armour for my soul, before 
It might walk forth to war among mankind ; 
Thus power and hope were strengthened more and 
Within me, till there came upon my mind [more 

A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 

VI. 

Alas, that love should be a blight and snare 
To those who seek all sympathies in one ! — ■ 
Such once I sought in vain ; then black despair. 
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 
Over the world in which I moved alone : — 
Yet never found I one not false to me, 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone 
Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart 
Fell, hke bright Spring upon some herbless plain, 
How beautiful and calm and free thou wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain 
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, 
And walked as free as light the clouds among, 
Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung 
To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long. 

VIIT. 

No more alone through the world's wilderness, 
Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
I johrneyed now : no more companionless. 
Where solitude is like despair, I went. — • 
There is the wisdom of a stern content 
When Poverty can blight the just and good, 
When Infamy dares mock the innocent. 
And cherished friends turn with the multitude 
To trample : this was ours, and we unshaken 
stood ! 

IX. 

Now has descended a serener hour, 

And with inconstant fortune, friends return ; 

Though suffeiing leaves the knowledge and the 

power 
Which says : — Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. 
And from thy side two gentle babes are bom 
To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn : 
And these dehghts, and thou, have been to me 
The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. 

X. 

Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers 
But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? 
Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers 
Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, 
Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign, 
And charm the minds of men to Truth's o\vn sway, 
Holier than was Amphion's ] I would fain 
Reply in hope — ^but I am worn away. 
And Death and Love are yet contending for their 
prey. 

XT. 

And what art thou ? I know, but dare not speak : 
Time may interpret to his silent years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, 
And in the light thine ample forehead wears. 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears, 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears : 
And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see 
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 

XII. 

They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth. 
Of glorious parents thou aspiring Child : 
I wonder not — for One then left this earth 
Whose Ufe was like a setting planet mild. 
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled 
Of its departuig glory ; still her fame 
Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days ; and thou canst claim 
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name. 



One voice came forth fi'om many a mighty spirit, 
Which was the echo of three thousand years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it. 
As some lone man who m a desert hears 
The music of his home : unwonted fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race. 
And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares. 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space [place. 
Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling- 

XIV. 

Tnith's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my cry — 
If men must rise and stamp with fiuy blind 
On his pure name who loves them, — thou and I, 
Sweet Friend ! can look from our tranqmllity 
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night, — 
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by 
Which viTap them from the foundering seaman's 
sight, [light. 

That burn from year to year with unextinguished 

CANTO L 
I. 

Whex the last hope of trampled France had failed 
Like a brief dream of unremaining glory, 
From visions of despair I rose, and scaled 
The peak of an aerial promontory, [hoary ; 

Whose cavenied base with the vexed surge was 
And saw the golden dawn break forth, and waken 
Each cloud, and every wave : — ^but transitory 
The calm : for sudden, the firm earth was shaken, 

As if by the last wreck its frame were overtaken. 
II. 
So as I stood, one blast of muttering thunder 
Burst in far peals along the waveless deep. 
When, gathering fast, around, above, and under. 
Long trains of tremulous mist began to creep, 
Until their complicating lines did steep 
The orient sun in shadow : — not a sound 
Was heard; one horrible repose did keep 
The forests and the floods, and all around 

Dai"kness more dread than night was poured upon 
the ground. 

III. 
Hark ! 'tis the rushing of a wind that sweeys 
Earth and the ocean. See ! the lightningsyawn 
Deluging Heaven with fire, and the lashcL^ deeps 
Glitter and boil beneath : it rages on, [flirown, 
One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves up- 
Lightnmg, and hail, and darkness eddyiig by, 
There is a pause — the sea-birds, that wfre gone 
Into meir caves to shriek, come forth to spy 

What calm has fall'n on earth , what light ian the sky. 

IT. 

For, where the irresistible storm had cloven 
That fearful darkness, the blue sky wt.s seen 
Fretted wth many a fair cloud interwoven 
Most delicately, and the ocean green, 
Beneath that opening spot of blue serene. 
Quivered like burning emerald : calm was spread 
On all below ; but far on high, behveen 
Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds fled, [^iled. 
Countless and swift, as leaves on autumn's teupest 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



73 



For ever as the war became more fierce 
Between the whirlwinds and the rack on high, 
Ti.at spot grew more serene ; blue light did pierce 
The woof of those white clouds, which seemed to lie 
Far, deep, and motionless ; while through the sky 
The pallid semicircle of the moon 
Past on, in slow and moving majesty ; 
Its upper horn arrayed in mists, which soon 
But slowly fled, like dew beneath the beams of noon. 

VI. 

I could not choose but gaze ; a fascination [drew 
Dwelt in that moon, and sky, and clouds, wliich 
My fancy thither, and in expectation 
Of what I knew not, I remained : — the hue 
Of the white moon, amid that heaven so blue, 
Suddenly stained with shadow did appear ; 
A speck, a cloud, a shape, approaching gi-ew, 
Like a great ship in the sun's sinking sphere 
Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came anear — 

TIT. 

Even like a bark, which from a chasm of moun- 
Dark, vast, and overhanging, on a river [tains, 
Wliich there collects the strength of all its foun- 
tains, [quiver. 
Comes forth, whilst wdth the speed its frame doth 
Sails, oars, and stream, tending to one endeavour; 
So, from that chasm of light a winged Form 
On all the winds of heaven approaching ever 
Floated, dilating as it came : the storm 

Pursued it with fierce blasts, and lightnings swift 
and warm. 

Tin. 
A course precipitous, of dizzy speed. 
Suspending thought and breath; a monstrous 
For in the air do I behold indeed [sight ! 

An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight : — • 
And now, relaxing its impetuous flight 
Before the aerial rock on which I stood, 
The Eagle, hovering, wheeled to left and right, 
And hung with lingering wings over the flood, 

And startled with its yells the wide air's solitude. 

IX. 

A shaft of light upon its wings descended, 
And every golden feather gleamed therein — 
Feather and scale inexhicably blended. 
The Serpent's mailed and many-coloured skin 
Shone through the plumes ; its coils were twined 

within 
By many a swollen and knotted fold, and high 
And far, the neck receding lithe and thin, 
Sustained a crested head, which warily 
Sliifted and glanced before the Eagle's steadfast eye. 

X. 

Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling 
With clang of wings and scream, the eagle sailed 
Incessantly — sometimes on high concealing 
Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed, 
Drooped through the air ; and still it shrieked and 

wailed, 
And casting back its eager head, with beak 
And talon unremittingly assailed 
The wreathed Serpent, who did ever seek 
Upon his enemy's heart a mortal wound to wreak. 
10 



What life, what power, was kindled and arose 
Within the sphere of that appalling fray ! 
For, fiom the encounter of those wond'rous foes, 
A vapour like the sea's suspended spray 
Hung gathered : in the void air, far away, [leap. 
Floated the shattered plumes ; bright scales did 
Where'er the Eagle's talons made their way, 
Like sparks into the darkness ; — as they sweep, 
B lood stains the snowy foam of the tumultuous deep. 

XII. 

Swift chances in that combat — many a check, 
And many a change, a dark and wild turmoil; 
Sometimes the Snake around his enemy's neck 
Locked in stiff" rings his admantine coil, 
Until the Eagle, faint with pain and toil, 
Remitted liis strong flight, and near the sea 
Languidly fluttered, hopeless so to foil 
His adversary, who then reared on high 
His red and burning crest, radiant with victory. 

XIIT. 

Then on the white edge of the bursting surge, 
Where they had sunk together, would the Snake 
Relax his suffocating grasp, and scourge 
The wind with his wild writhings ; for to break 
That chain of torment, the vast bird would shake 
The strength of his unconquerable wings 
As in despair, and with his sinewy neck 
Dissolve in sudden shock those linked rings 
Then soar — as swift as smoke from a volcano 
springs. 

XIV 

Wile baflled wile, and strength encountered 

strength, 
Thus long, but unprevailing : — the event 
Of that portentous fight appeared at length : 
Until the lamp of day was almost spent 
It had endured, when lifeless, stark, and rent, 
Hung high that mighty Serpent, and at last 
Fell to the sea, while o'er the continent. 
With clang of wings and scream the Eagle past, 
Heavily borne away on the exhausted blast. 

XV. 

And with it fled the tempest, so that ocean 
And earth and sky shone through the atmo- 
sphere — 
Only, it was strange to see the red commotion 
Of waves like mountains o'er the sinking sphere 
Of sunset sweep, and their fierce roar to hear 
Amid the calm : down the steep path I wound 
To the sea-shore — the evening was most clear 
And beautiful, and there the sea I found 
Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber 
bound. 

XVI. 

There was a Woman, beautiful as morning, 
Sitting beneath the rocks upon the sand 
Of the waste sea — fair as one flower adorning 
An icy wilderness — each delicate hand 
Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band 
Of her dark hair had fallen, and so she sate 
Looking upon the waves ; on the bare strand 
Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait. 
Fair as herself like Love by Hope left desolate. 
G 



74 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



It seemed that this fair Shape had looked upon 
That unimaginable fight, and now 
That her sweet eyes were weary of the sun, 
As brightly it illustrated her wo ; 
For in the tears which silently to flow 
Paused not, its lustre hung : she watching aye 
The foam- wreaths which the faint tide wove below 
Upon the spangled sands, groaned heavily, 
And after every groan looked up over the sea. 

XVIII. 

And when she saw the wounded Serpent make 
His paths between the waves, her lips grew pale, 
Parted, and quivered ; the tears ceased to break 
From her immovable eyes ; no voice of wail 
Escaped her ; but she rose, and on the gale 
Loosening her star-bright robe and shadowy hair. 
Poured forth her voice ; the caverns of the vale 
That opened to the ocean, caught it there. 
And filled with silver sounds the overflowing air. 



She spake in language whose strange melody 
Might not belong to earth. I heard, alone, 
What made its music more melodious be, 
The pity and the love of every tone : [known. 
But to the Snake those accents sweet were 
His native tongue and hers : nor did he beat 
The hoar spray idly then, but winding on [meet 
Through the green shadows of the waves that 
Near to the shore, did pause beside her snowy 
feet. 

XX. 

Then on the sands the Woman sate again. 
And wept and clasped her hands, and all between, 
Renewed the unintelligible strain 
Of her melodious voice and eloquent mien ; 
And she unveiled her bosom, and the green 
And glancing shadows of the sea did play 
O'er its marmoreal depth : — one moment seen, 
For ere the next, the Serpent did obey 
Her voice, and, coiled in rest, in her embrace it lay. 

xxr. 
Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes 
Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet fair, 
While yet the daylight lingereth in the skies 
Which cleaves with arrowy beams the dark-red 

air, 
And said : To giieve is wise, but the despair 
Was weak and vain which led thee here from sleep: 
This shalt thou know, and more, if thou dost dare 
With me and with this Serpent, o'er the deep, 
A voyage divine and strange, companionship to keep. 

XXII. 

Her voice was like the wildest, saddest tone. 
Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard long ago. 
I wept. Shall tliis fair woman all alone 
Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go 1 
His head is in her heart, and who can know 
How soon he may devour his feeble prey ] — 
Such were my thoughts, when the tide 'gan to flow ; 
And that strange boat, like the moon's shade did 
sway 
Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay. 



XXIII 

A boat of rare device, which had no sail 
But its own curved prow of thin moonstone, 
Wrought like a web of texture fine and frail, 
To catch those gentlest winds which are not known 
To breathe, but by the steady speed alone 
With which it cleaves the sparkling sea : and now 
We are embarked, the mountains hang and frown 
Over the starry deep that gleams below 
A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the waves we go. 

XXIV. 

And as we sailed, a strange and awful tale 
That Woman told, like such mysterious dream 
As makes the slumberer'scheekwith wonder pale! 
'Twas midnight and around a shoreless stream, 
Wide ocean rolled, when that majestic theme 
Shrined in her heart found utterance and she bent 
Her looks on mine ; those eyes a kinding beam 
Of love divine into my spirit sent. 
And, ere her lips could move, made the air eloquent. 

XXT. 

Speak not to me, but hear ! much shalt thou learn. 
Much must remain unthought, and more untold, 
In the dark Future's ever-flowing urn: 
Know then, that from the depth of ages old 
Two Powers o'er mortal things dominion hold, 
Ruling the world with a divided lot. 
Immortal, all-pervading, manifold. 
Twin Genii, equal Gods — when life and thought 
Sprang forth, they burst the womb of inessential 
Nought. 

XXVI. 

The earliest dweller of the world alone 
Stood on the verge of chaos : Lo ! afar 
O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors shone. 
Sprung from the depth of its tempestuous jar : 
A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star 
Mingling their beams in combat — as he stood 
All thoughts within his mind waged mutual war, 
In dreadful sympathy — when to the flood [blood. 
That fair star fell, he turned and shed his brother's 

XXTII. 

Thus c^'il triumphed, and the Spirit of evil. 

One Power of many shapes which none may 

know. 
One Shape of many names; the fiend did revel 
In victory, reigning o'er a world of wo, 
For the new race of man went to and fro. 
Famished and homeless, loathed and loathing, wild, 
And hating good — for his immortal foe. 
He changed from starry shape, beauteous and mild. 
To a dire Snake, with man and beast unreconciled. 

XXVIII. 

The darkness lingering o'er the dawn of things, 
Was Evil's breath and life; this made him strong 
To soar aloft with overshadowing wings ; 
And the great Spirit of Good did creep among 
The nations of mankind, and every tongue 
Cursed, and blasphemed him as he past; for none 
Knew good from e\'il,though their names were hung 
In mockery o'er the fine where many a groan, 
As King, and Lord, and God, the conquering 
Fiend did own. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



75 



The fiend, whose name was Legion ; Death, Decay, 
Earthquake and Blight, and Want, and Madness 
Winged and wan diseases, an array [pale> 

Numerous as leaves tliat strew the autumnal gale; 
Poison, a snake in flowers, heneath the veil 
Of food and mirth, hiding his mortal head ; 
And without whom all these might nought avail. 
Fear, Hatred, Faith, and Tyranny, who spread 
Those subtle nets which snare the living and the dead. 

XXX. 

His spirit is their power, and they his slaves 
In air, and light, and thought, and language dwell; 
And keep their state from palaces to graves, 
In all resorts of men — invisible, 
But when, in ebon mirror, Nightmare fell. 
To tyrant or impostor bids them rise, [hell. 

Black winged demon forms — whom from the 
His reign and dwelling beneath nether skies, 
He loosens to their dark and blasting ministries. 

XXXI. 

In the world's youth his empire was as firm 
As its foundations — soon the Spirit of Good, 
Though in the likeness of a loathsome worm, 
Sprang from the billows of the formless flood. 
Which shrank and fled ; and with that fiend of blood 
Renewed the doubtful war — thrones then first 

shook, 
And earth's immense and trampled multitude. 
In hope on their own powers began to look. 
And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine shrine 

forsook. 

XXXII. 

Then Greece arose, and to its bards and sages, 
In dream, the golden-pinioned Genii came, 
Even where they slept amid the night of ages 
Steeping their hearts in the divinest flame 
Which thybreath kindled. Power of holiest name ! 
And oft in cycles since, when darkness gave 
New weapons to thy foe, their sunlike fame 
Upon the combat shone — a light to save, [grave. 
Like Paradise spread forth beyond the shadowy 

XXXIII. 

Such is this conflict — when mankind doth strive 
With its oppressors in a strife of blood, 
Or when free thoughts, like Ughtnings, are alive ; 
And in each bosom of the multitude 
Justice and tiaith, with custom's hydra brood. 
Wage silent war ; — when priests and kings disscm- 
In smiles or frowns their fierce disqueitude, [ble 
When round pure hearts, a host of hopes assemble, 
The Snake and Eagle meet — the world's founda- 
tions tremble ! 

XXXIY. 

Thou hast beheld that fight — when to thy home 
Thou dost return, steep not its hearth in tears: 
Though thou may'st hear that earth is now become 
The tyrant's garbage, which to liis compeers, 
The vile reward of their dishonoured years, 
He will divithng give. — The victor Fiend 
Omnipotent of yore, now quails, and fears 
His triumph dearly won, which soon will lend 
An impulse swift and sure to Ms approaching end. 



List, stranger, list ! mine is a human foi-m, [now ! 
Like that thou wearest — touch me — shrink not 
My hand thou feel'st is not a ghost's, hut wami, 
With human blood. — 'Twas many years ago, 
Since first my thirsting soul aspired to know 
The secrets of this wondrous world, when deep 
My heart was pierced with sympathy for wo, [keep. 
Which could not be mine own — and thought did 
In dream, unnatural watch beside an infant's sleep. 

XXXVI. 

Wo could not be mine own, since far from men 
I dwelt, a free and happy oqjhan child. 
By the sea-shore, in a deep mountain glen ; 
And near the waves, and through the forests wild, 
I roamed, to storm and darloiess reconciled, 
For I was calm while tempest shook the sky : 
But, when the breathless heavens in beauty smiled, 
I wept sweet tears, yet too tumultuously 
For peace, and clasped my hands aloft in ecstacy. 

XXXVII. 

These were forebodings of my fate. — Before 
A woman's heart beat in my virgin breast, 
It had been nurtured in divinest lore : 
A dying poet gave me books, and blest 
With wild but holy talk the sweet unrest 
In which I watched him as he died away — i 
A youth with hoary hair — a fleeting guest 
Of our lone mountains — and this lore did sway 

My spuit like a storm, contending there alway. 
xxxviri. 
Thus the dark tale which history doth unfold, 
I knew, but not, metlunks, as others know. 
For they weep not ; and Wisdom had unrolled 
The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal wo : 
To few can she that warning vision show, 
For I loved all things with intense devotion: 
So that when hope's deep source in fullest flow, 
Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant ocean 

Of human thoughts — mme shook beneath the wide 
emotion. 

XXXIX. 

When first the living blood through all these veins 
Kindled a thought in sense, great France sprang 

forth 
And seized, as if to break, the ponderous chains 
Which bind in wo the nations of the earth. 
I saw, and started from my cottage hearth ; 
And to the clouds and waves in tameless gladness 
Shrieked, till they caught immeasurable mirth — 
And laughed in light and music: soon, sweet 

madness [sadness. 

Was poured upon my heart, a soft and thrilling 

XL. 

Deep slumber fell on me ; — my dreams were fire. 
Soft and delightful thoughts did rest and hover 
Like shadows o'er my brain ; and strange desire. 
The tempest of a passion, raging over 
My tranquil soul, its depths with light did cover, 
Which past ; and calm, and darkness, sweeter fax 
Came — then I loved ; but not a human lover ! 
For when I rose from sleep, the Morning Star 
Shone through the woodbine wreaths which round 
my casement were. 



76 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



'Twas like an eye which seemed to smile on me. 
I watched till, by the sun made pale, it sank 
Under the billows of the heaving sea ; 
But from its beams deep love my spirit drank, 
And to my brain the boundless world now shrank 
Into one thought — one image — yea, for ever ! 
Even Idle the day's spring, poured on vapours dank, 
The beams of that One star did shoot and quiver 

Through my benighted mind — and were extua- 
guish never. 

XLir. 
The day past thus : at night, methought in dream 
A shape of speechless beauty did appear ; 
It stood like light on a careering stream 
Of golden clouds which shook the atmospliere ; 
A winged youth, his radiant brow did wear 
The Morning Star : a wild dissolving bliss 
Over my frame he breathed, approaching near, 
And bent his eyes of kindling tenderness [kiss. 

Near mine, and on my lips impressed a lingering 
XLiir. 
And said : A Spirit loves thee, mortal maiden, 
How wilt thou prove thy worth 1 Then joy and 
Together fled ; my soul was deeply laden, [sleep 
And to the shore I went to muse and weep ; 
But as I moved over my heart did creep 
A joy less soft, but more profound and strong 
Than my sweet dream ; and it forbade to keep 
The path of the sea-shore : that Spirit's tongue 

Seemed whispering in my heart, and bore my steps 
along. 

■XLiy. 
How, to that vast and peopled city led, 
Which was a field of holy warfare then, 
I walked among the dying and the dead, 
And shared in fearless deeds with evil men, 
Calm as an angel in the dragon's den — 
How I braved death for liberty and truth, [when 
And spurned at peace, and power, and fame ; and 
Those hopes had lost the glory of their youth, 

How sadly I returned — might move the hearer's 
ruth: 

XIV. 

Warm tears throng fast ! the tale may not be said — 
Know then, that when this gi'ief had been subdued, 
I was not left, like others, cold and dead ; 
The Spirit whom I loved in solitude 
Sustained his child : the tempest-shaken wood. 
The waves, the fountains, and the hush of night — 
These were his voice, and well I understood 
His smile divine when the calm sea was bright 
With silent stars, and Heaven was breathless with 
delight. 

XLVI. 

In lonely glens, amid the roar of rivers. 
When the dim nights were moonless, have I known 
Joys which no tongue can tell ; my pale lip quivers 
When thought revisits them:' — ^know thou alone. 
That after many wondrous years were flown, 
I was awakened by a shriek of wo ; 
And over me a mystic robe was thrown, 
By viewless hands, and a bright star did glow 
Before my steps — the Snake then met his mortal foe. 



XLvir. 
Thou fear'st not then the Serpent on thy heart 1 
Tear it ! she said with brief and passionate cry, 
And spake no more : that silence made me start — 
I looked, and we were sailing pleasantly. 
Swift as a cloud between the sea and sky. 
Beneath the rising moon seen far away ; 
Mountains of ice, like sapphire piled on high 
Hemming the horizon round, in silence lay 
On the still waters, — these we did approach alway. 

XLTIir. 

And swifl and swifter grew the vessel's motion, 
So that a dizzy trance fell on my brain — 
Wild music woke me : we had past the ocean 
Which girds the pole, Nature's remotest reign — 
And we glode fast o'er a pellucid plain 
Of waters, azure with the noontide day. 
Ethereal mountains shone around — a Fane 
Stood in the midst, girt by gi-een isles which lay 
On the blue sunny deep, resplendent far away. 

xtix. 
It was a temple, such as mortal hand 
Has never built, nor ecstacy, or dream. 
Reared in the cities of enchanted land : 
'Twas likest Heaven, ere yet day's purple streak 
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while the gleam 
Of the unrisen moon among the clouds 
Is gathering — when with many a golden beam 
The thronging constellations rush in crowds. 
Paving with fne the sky and the marmoreal floods. 

I.. 

Like what may be conceived of this vast dome, 
When from the depths which thought can seldom 
Genius beholds it rise, his native home, [pierce 
Girt by the deserts of the Universe, 
Yet, nor in painting's light, or mightier verse. 
Or sculpture's marble language, can invest 
That shape to mortal sense — such glooms immerse 
That incommunicable sight, and rest 
Upon the labouring brain and over-burdened breast. 

LI. 

Winding among the lawny islands fair, 
Whose bloomy forests starred the shadowy deep. 
The wingless boat paused where an ivory stair 
Its fret-work in the crystal sea did steep. 
Encircling that vast Fane's aerial heap : 
We disembarked, and through a portal wide 
We passed — whose roof of moonstone carved, did 
A glimmering o'er the forms on every side, [keep 
Sculptures like life and thought; immovable, deep- 
eyed. 

LII. 

We came to a vast hall, whose glorious roof 
Was diamond, which had di'unk the lightning's 

sheen 
In darkness, and now poured it through the woof 
Of spell-inwoven clouds hung there to screen 
Its blinding splendour — through such veil was seen 
That work of subtlest power, divine and rare ; 
Orb above orb, with starry shapes between, 
And horned moons, and meteors strange and fair. 
On night-black columns poised — one hollow hemi- 
sphere ! 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



77 



Ten thousand columns in that quivering light 
Distinct — between whose shafts wound far away 
The long and lal>yi"inthiTic isles — more bright 
With their own radiance than the Heaven of Day ; 
And on the jasper walls around, there lay 
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought, 
Which did the Spirit's history display ; 
A tale of passionate change, divinely taught. 
Which, in their winged dance, unconscious Genii 
wrought. 

IIV. 

Beneath, there sate on many a sapphire throne. 
The great who had departed fi-om mankind, 
A mighty Senate ; some whose white hair shone 
Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful, and blind. 
Some, female forms, whose gestures beamed with 

mind ; 

And ardent youths, and children bright and fair ; 

And some had lyres whose strings were intertwined 

With pale and clinging flames, which ever there 

W^aked faint yet thrillmg sounds that pierced tlie 

crystal air. 

One seat was vacant in the midst, a throne, 
Reared on a pyramid like sculptured flame, 
Distinct with circling steps which rested on 
Their own deep fire — soon as the woman Came 
Into that hall, she shrieked the Spirit's name 
And fell ; and vanished slowly from the sight. 
Darkness arose from her dissolving frame, 
Which gathering, filled that dome of woven light. 
Blotting its sphered stars with supernatural night. 

IVI. 

Then first two glittering lights were seen to glide 
In circles on the amethystine floor, 
Small serpent eyes trailmg from side to side, 
Like meteors on a river's grassy shore. 
They round each other rolled, dilating more 
And more — then rose, commingling into one, 
One clear and mighty planet hanging o'er 
A cloud of deepest shadow, which was thrown 
Athw;ut the glowing steps and the crystalline throne. 

LVII. 

The cloud which rested on that cone of flame 
W^as cloven ; beneath a planet sate a Form, 
Fairer than tongue can speak or thought may frame, 
The radiance of whose limbs rose-like and warm 
Flowed forth, and did with softest light inform 
Tlie shadowy dome, the sculptures, and the state 
Of those assembled shapes — with clinging charm 
Sinking upon their hearts and mine — He sate 
Majestic yet most mild — calm, yet compassionate. 

LTIII. 

Wonder and joy a passing faintness threw 
Over my brow — a hand su))ported me. 
Whose touch was magic strength: an eye of blue 
liooked upon mine, like moonlight, soothingly ; 
And a voice said — Thou nnist a listener be 
This day — two mighty spirits now return, 
Iiik(^ birds of calm, from the world's raging sea, 
They pour fresh hght from Hope's immortal ura; 
A talc of human power — despair not — list and learn ! 



I looked, and lo ! one stood forth eloquently, 
His eyes were dark and deep, and the clear brow 
Which shadowed them was like the morning sky. 
The cloudless Heaven of Spring, when in their flow 
Through the bright air, the soft winds as they blow 
Wake the green world — his gestures did obey 
The oracular mind that mailc his timtures glow, 
And where his curved lips half open lay 
Passion's divinest stream had made impetuous way. 

LX. 

Beneath the darkness of his outspread hair 
He stootl thus beautiful: but there was One 
Who sate beside him like his shadow there. 
And held his hand — far lovelier — she was known 
To be thus fair, by the few lines alone 
\^'luch throixgh her floating locks and gathered 
Glances of soul-dissolving glory shone : — Teloak 
None else beheld her eyes — in him they woke 
Memories which found a tongue, as thus he silence 
broke. 

CANTO n. 

T. 

The frtarlight smile of children, the sweet looks 
Of women, the fair breast from which I fed, 
The murmur of the unreposing brooks. 
And the green light which, shifting overhead. 
Some tangled bower of vines around nie shed. 
The shells on the sea-sand, and the wild flowers, 
The lamplight through the rafters cheerly spread. 
And on the twining flax — in life's joung hours 

These sights and sounds did nurse my spirit's 
folded powers. 

II. 
In Argolis beside the echoing sea, 
Such impulses within my mortal frame 
Arose, and they were dear to memory. 
Like tokens of the dead : — hut others came 
Soon, in another shape : the wondrous fame 
Of the past world, the vital words and deeds 
Of minds whom neither time nor change can tame. 
Traditions dark and old, whence evil creeds [feeds. 

Stiirt forth, and whose dim shade a stream of poison 
III. 
I heard, as all have heard, the various story 
Of human life, and wept unwilling tears 
Feeble historians of its shame and glory, 
False disputants on all its hopes and fears,' 
Victims who worshipped ruin,' — chroniclers 
Of daily scorn, and slaves who loathed their state; 
Yet flattering power had given its ministers 
A throne of judgment in the grave — 'twas fate, 

That among such as these my youth should seek its 
mate. 

IV. 

The land in which I lived, hj a fell bane 
Was withered up. Tyrants dwelt sidi^ by side, 
And stabled in our homes, — until the chain 
Stifled the captive's cry, and to abide 
That blasting curse men had no shame — all vied 
In evil, slave and despot ; fear with lust 
Strange fellowsliip through mutual hate had tied. 
Like two dark serpents tangled in the dust, [thrust. 
Which on the paths of men their mingling poison 



78 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Earth, our bright home, its mountains and its 

waters, 
And the ethereal shapes which are suspended 
Over its green expanse, and those fair daughters, 
The clouds, of Sun and Ocean, who have blended 
The colours of the air since first extended 
It cradled the young world, none wandered forth 
To see or feel : a darkness had descended 
On every heart : the light which shows its worth. 
Must among gentle thoughtsand fearless take itsbkth. 

TI. 

This vital world, this home of happy spirits, 
Was as a dungeon to my blasted kind, 
All that despair from murdered hope inherits 
They sought, and in their helpless misery blind, 
A deeper prison and heavier chains did find, 
And stronger tyrants : — a dark gulf before, 
The realm of a stern Ruler, yawned ; behind, 
Terror and Time conflicting drove, and bore 
On their tempestuous flood the sliiieking wi'etch 
from shore. 

VII. 

Out of that Ocean's wrecks had Guilt and Wo 
Framed a dark dwelling for their homeless thought, 
And, starting at the ghosts which to and fro 
Glide o'er its dim and gloomy sti-and, had brought 
The worship thence wliich they each other taught. 
Well might men loathe their life, well might they 

turn 
Even to the ills again from which they sought 
Such refuge after death ! — ^well might they learn 
To gaze on this fair world with hopeless unconcern. 

VIII. 

For they all pined in bondage ; body and soul, 
Tyrant and slave, victim and torturer, bent 
Before one Power, to which supreme control 
Over their vnll by their own weakness lent, 
Made all its many names omnipotent; 
All symbols of things evil, all divine ; 
And hymns of blood or mockery, which rent 
The air from all its fanes, did intertwine [shrine. 
Imposture's impious toils round each discordant 

IX. 

I heard, as all have heard, life's various story, 
And in no careless heart transcribed the tale ; 
But, from the sneers of men who had grown hoary 
In shame and scorn, from groans of crowds made 
By famine, from a mother's desolate wail [pale 
O'er her polluted child, fi-om innocent blood 
Poured on the earth, and brows anxious and pale 
With the heart's warfare ; did I gather food 
To feed my many thoughts : a tameless multitude. 

X. 

I wandered through the wrecks of days departed 
Far by the desolated shore, when even 
O'er the still sea and jagged islets darted 
The light of moonrise ; in the northern Heaven, 
Among the clouds near the horizon driven, 
The mountains lay beneath one planet pale ; 
Around me broken tombs and columns riven 
Looked vast in twilight, and the sorrowing gale 
Waked in those ruins gray its everlasting wail ! 



I knew not who had fi-amed these wonders then, 
Nor had I heard the story of their deeds ; 
Bat dwellings of a race of mightier men. 
And monuments of less ungentle creeds 
Tell their own tale to him who wisely heeds 
The language which they speak ; and now, to me 
The moonlight making pale the blooming 

weeds. 
The bright stars shining in the breathless sea, 
Interjireted those scrolls of mortal mystery. 

XII. 

Such man has been, and such may yet become ! 
Ay, wiser, greater, gentler, even than they 
Who on the fragments of yon shattered dome 
Have stamped the sign of power — I felt the sway 
Of the vast stream of ages bear away 
My floating thoughts — ^my heart beat loud and 
Even as a storm let loose beneath the ray [fast — 
Of the still moon, my spirit onward past 
Beneath truth's steady beams upon its tumult cast. 

XIII. 

It shall be thus no more ! too long, too long. 
Sons of the glorious dead ! have ye lain bound 
In darkness and in ruin. — Hope is strong. 
Justice and Truth their winged child have found — 
Awake ! arise ! until the mighty sound 
Of your career shall scatter in its gust 
The thrones of the oppressor, and the ground 
Hide the last altar's unregarded dust, 
Whose Idol has so long betrayed your impious trust. 

XIV. 

It must be so — ^I will arise and waken 
The multitude, and like a sulphurous hill. 
Which on a sudden fi-om its snows had shaken 
The swoon of ages, it shall burst, and fill 
The world with cleansing fire ; it must, it will — 
It may not be restrained ! — and who shall stand 
Amid the rocking earthquake steadfast still, 
But Laon 1 on high Freedom's desert land 
A tower whose marble walls the leagued storms 
withstand ! 

XV. 

One summer night, in commune with the hope 
Thus deeply fed, amid those ruins gray 
I watched, beneath the dark sky's starry cope ; 
And ever from that hour upon me lay 
The burden of this hope, and night or day, 
In vision or in dream, clove to my breast ; 
Among mankind, or when gone far away 
To the lone shores and mountains, 'twas a guest. 
Which followed where I fled, and watched when I 
did rest. 

XVI. 

These hopes found wonls through which my spirit 
To weave a bondage of such sympathy [sought 
As might create some response to the thought 
Which ruled me now — and as the vapours lie 
Bright in the outspread morning's radiancy. 
So were these thoughts invested with the light 
Of language ; and all bosoms made reply 
On which its lustre streamed, whene'er it might 
Through darkness wide and deep those tranced 
spirits smite. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



79 



Yes, many an eye with dizzy tears was dim, 
And oft I thought to clasp my own heart's brother, 
When I could feel the hstener's senses swim, 
And hear his breath its own swift gaspings smother 
Even as my words evoked them — ^and another, 
And yet another, I did fondly deem, 
Felt that we all were sons of one great mother ; 
And the cold truth such sad reverse did seem. 
As to awake in grief from some delightful dream. 

XTIII. 

Yes, oft beside the ruined labyrinth 
Which skirts the hoary caves of the green deep. 
Did Laon and his friend on one gray plinth. 
Round whose worn base the wild waves hiss and 
Resting at eve, a lofty converse keep : [leap, 

And that his friend was false, may now be said 
Calmly — that he like other men could weep 
Tears which are lies, and could betray and spread 
Snares for that guileless heart which for his own 
had bled. 

XIX. 

Then, had no great aim recompensed my sorrow, 
I must have sought dark respite from its stress 
In dreamless rest, in sleep that sees no morrow — 
For to tread life's dismaying wilderness 
Without one smile to cheer, one voice to bless, 
Amid the snares and scoffs of human kind, 
Is hard — ^but I betrayed it not, nor less 
With love that scorned return, sought to unbind 
The interwoven clouds which make its wisdom blind. 

XX. 

With deathless minds, which leave where they have 
A path of light, my soul communion knew ; [past 
Till from that glorious intercourse, at last. 
As from a mine of magic store, I drew 
Words which were weapons ; — round my heart 

there grew 
The adamantine armour of their power. 
And from my fancy wings of golden hue 
Sprang forth — yet not alone, from wisdom's tower, 
A muiister of truth, these plumes young Laon bore. 

XXI. 

An orphan with my parents lived, whose eyes 
Were load-stars of delight, which drew me home 
When I might wander forth ; nor did I prize 
Aught human thing beneath Heaven's mighty 

dome 
Beyond this child : so when sad hours were come. 
And baffled hope like ice still clung to me. 
Since kin were cold, and friends had now become 
Heartless and false, I turned from all, to be, 
Cy tlma, the only source of tears and smiles to thee. 

XXII. 

What wert thou then 1 A child most infantine, 
Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age 
In all but its sweet looks and mien divine ; 
Even then, meth ought, with the world's tyrant rage 
A patient warfare thy young heart did wage. 
When those soft eyes of scarcely conscious thought, 
Some tale, or thine own fancies, would engage 
To overflow with tears, or converse fraught 
With passion, o'er their depths its fleeting light 
had wTought. 



XXIII. 

She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, 
A power, that from its objects scarcely drew 
One impulse of her being — in her lightness 
Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew 
Which wanders through the waste air's pathless 
To nourish some far desert ; she did seem [blue, 
Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew. 
Like the bright shade of some immortal dream 
Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of 
life's dark stream. 

XXIT. 

As mine own shadow was this child to me, 
A second self, far dearer and more fair ; 
Which clothed in undissolving radiancy 
All those steep paths which languor and despair 
Of human things had made so dark and bare, 
But which I trod alone^ — nor, till bereft 
Of friends, and overcome by lonely care. 
Knew I what solace for that loss was left. 
Though by a bitter wound my trusting heart was 
cleft. 

XXV. 

Once she was dear, now she was all I had 
To love in human life — this playmate sweet. 
This child of twelve years old — so she was made 
My sole associate, and her willing feet 
Wandered with mine where earth and ocean meet. 
Beyond the aerial mountains whose vast cells 
The unreposing billows ever beat. 
Through forests wide and old, and lawny dells. 
Where boughs of incense droop over the emerald 
wells. 

XXVI. 

And warm and light I felt her clasping hand 
When twined in mine : she followed where I went. 
Through the lone paths of our immortal land. 
It had no waste, but some memorial lent 
Which strung me to my toil — some monument 
Vital with mind : then Cythna by my side. 
Until the bright and beaming day were spent, 
Would rest, with looks entreating to abide. 
Too earnest and too sweet ever to be denied. 

XXVII. 

And soon I could not have refused her — thus 
For ever, day and night, we two were ne'er 
Parted, but when brief sleep tli%ddcd us : 
And, when the pauses of the lulling air 
Of noon beside the sea had made a lair 
For her soothed senses, in my arms she slept. 
And I kept watch over her slumbers there, 
While, as the shifting ^•isions over her swept. 
Amid her innocent rest by turns she smiled and 
wept. 

XXVIII. 

And, in the murmur of her dreams, was heard 
Sometimes the name of Laon : suddenly 
She would arise, and, like the secret bird 
Whom sunset wakens, fill the shore and sky 
With her sweet accents — a wild melody ! 
Hymns which my soul had woven to Freedom, 

strong 
The source of passion, whence they rose to be 
Triumyjhant strains, which, like a spirit's tongue. 
To the enchanted waves that child of glory sung. 



80 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Her white arms lifted through the shadowy stream 
Of her loose hair — oh, excellently great 
Seemed to me then my purpose, the vast theme 
Of those impassioned songs, when Cythna sate 
Amid the calm which rapture doth create 
After its tumult, her heart vibrating. 
Her spirit o'er the ocean's floating state 
From her deep eyes far wandering, on the wing 
Of visions that were mine, beyond its utmost 
spring. 

XXX. 

For, before Cythna loved it, had my song 
Peopled vnth thoughts the boundless imiverse, 
A mighty congregation, which were strong 
Where'er they trod the darkness to disperse 
The cloud of that unutterable cm-se 
Which clings upon mankind : — ^all things became 
Slaves to my holy and heroic verse, 
Earth, sea, and sky, the planets, life, and fame, 
And fate, or whate'er else binds the world's won- 
drous frame. 

XXXI. 

And this beloved child thus felt the sway 
Of my conceptions, gathering like a cloud 
The very wind on which it rolls away : 
Hers too were all my thoughts, ere yet, endowed 
With music and with light, their fountains flowed 
In poesy ; and her still and earnest face, 
Pallid with feelings which intensely glowed 
Within, was turned on mine with speechless grace. 
Watching the hopes which there her heart had 
learned to trace. 

XXXII. 

In me, communion with this purest being 
Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise 
In knowledge, which in hers mine own mind seeing, 
Left in the human world few mysteries : 
How without fear of evil or disguise 
Was Cythna ! — what a spirit strong and mild, 
Which death, or pain, or peril, could despise, 
Yet melt in tenderness ! what genius wild, 
Yet mighty, was enclosed within one simple child ! 

XXXIII. 

New lore was tliis — old age with its gray hair, 
And wiinkled legends of unworthy things, 
And icy sneers, is nought : it cannot dare 
To burst the chains which life for ever flings 
On the entangled soul's aspiring wings, 
So is it cold and cruel, and is made 
The careless slave of that dark power which brmgs 
Evil, Uke blight on man, who, still betrayed, 
Laughs o'er the grave in which his living hopes 
are laid. 

XXXIV. 

Nor are the strong and the severe to keep 
The empire of the world : thus Cythna taught 
Even in the visions of her eloquent sleep. 
Unconscious of the power through which she 
The woof of such intelligible thought, [wrought. 
As from the tranquil strength which cradled lay 
In her smile-peopled rest, my spnit sought 
Why the deceiver and the slave has sway 
O'er heralds so divine of truth's arising day. 



XXXV. 

Within that fairest form, the female mind 
Untainted by the poison clouds which rest 
On the dark world, a sacred home did find; 
But else, from the wide earth's maternal breast, 
Victorious Evil, which had dispossest 
All native power, had those fair children torn. 
And made them slaves to soothe his vile unrest, 
And minister to lust its joys forlorn, 
Till they had learned to breathe the atmosphere 
of scorn. 

XXXVI. 

This miseiy was but coldly felt, till she 
Became my only friend, who had indued 
My purpose with a wider sympathy ; 
Thus, Cythna mourned with me the servitude 
In which the half of humankind were mewed, 
Victims of lust and hate, the slaves of slaves : 
She mourned that grace and power were thrown 
To the hyena lust, who, among graves, [as food 
Over his loathed meal, laughing in agony, raves. 

XXXVII. 

And I, still gazing on that glorious child, 

Even as these thoughts flushed o'er her: — 

'• Cythna sweet, 
Well with the world art thou unreconciled ; 
Never will peace and human nature meet. 
Till free and equal man and woman greet 
Domestic peace ; and ere this power can make 
In human hearts its calm and holy seat. 
This slavery must be broken" — as I spake, 
From Cy thna's eyes a light of exultation brake. 

XXXVIII. 

She replied earnestly :-— " It shall be mine, 
This task, mine, Laon !■ — thou hast much to gain ; 
Nor wilt thou at poor Cythna's pride repuie, 
If she should lead a happy female train 
To meet thee over the rejoicing plain, 
When myriads at thy call shall throng around 
The Golden City." — Then the child did strain 
My arm upon her tremulous heart, and wound 
Her own about my neck, till some reply she found. 

XXXIX. 

I smiled, and spake not " Wherefore dost thou 

At what I say 1 Laon, I am not weak, [smile 
And, though my cheek might become pale the 
With thee, if thou desirest, will I seek [while. 
Through their array of banded slaves to wreak 
Ruin upon the tyrants. I had thought 
It was more hard to turn my unpractised cheek 
To scorn and shame, and this beloved spot 
And thee, dearest Friend, to leave and murmur not. 

XL. 

"Whence camelwhatlam? Thou, Laon, knowest 
How a young child should thus undaunted be ; 
Methinks, it is a power which thou bestowest. 
Through which I seek, by most resembling thee. 
So to become most good, and great, and free ; 
Yet far beyond this Ocean's utmost roar 
In towers and huts are many like to me. 
Who, could they see thine eyes, or feel such lore 
As I liave learnt fi-om them, like me would fear 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



81 



" Thinkest thou that I shall speak unskilfully, 
And none will heed me 1 I remember now, 
How once, a slave in tortures doomed to die, 
Was saved, because in accents sweet and low 
He sang a song his Judge loved long ago, 

As he was led to death All shall relent [flow. 

Who hear me — tears as mine have flowed, shall 
Hearts beat as mine now beats, with such intent 
As renovates the world ; a will omnipotent ! 

XIIT. 

" Yes, I will tread Pride's golden palaces. 
Through Penury's roofless huts and squalid cells 
Will I descend, where'er in abjectness 
Woman with some vile slave her tyrant dwells. 
There with the music of thine own sweet spells 
Will disenchant the captives, and will pour 
For the despairing, from the crystal wells 
Of thy deep spirit, reason's mighty lore. 
And power shall then abound, and hope arise once 
more. 

XLIIT. 

" Can man be free if woman be a slave "? [air 
Chain one who lives, and breathes this boundless 
To the corruption of a closed grave ! [bear 

Can they whose mates are beasts, condemned to 
Scorn, heavier far than toil or anguish, dare 
To trample their oppressors ] In their home 
Among their babes, thou knowest a curse would 

wear 
The shape of woman — hoary crime would come 
Behind, and fraud rebuild religion's tottering dome. 

XLIT. 

" I am a child : — I would not yet depart. 
When I go forth alone, bearing the lamp 
Aloft which thou hast kindled in my heart. 
Millions of slaves from many a dungeon damp 
Shall leap in joy, as the benumbing cramp 
Of ages leaves their limbs — no ill may harm 
Thy Cythna ever — truth its radiant stamp 
Has fixed, as an invulnerable charm 
Upon her children's brow, dark falsehood to disarm. 

XLT. 

" Wait yet awhile for the appointed day — 
Thou wilt depart, and I with tears shall stand 
Watching thy dim sail skirt the ocean gray ; 
Amid the dwellers of this lonely land 
I shall remain alone — and thy command 
Shall then dissolve the world's unquiet trance. 
And, multitudinous as the desert sand 
Borne on the storm, its millions shall advance. 
Thronging round thee, the light of their deliverance. 

XLVI. 

" Then, like the forests of some pathless mountain, 
Which from remotest glens two warring winds 
Involve in fire, which not the loosened fountain 
Of broadest floods might quench, shall all the kinds 
Of evil catch from our uniting minds [then 

The spark which must consume them ; — Cythna 
Will have cast off' the impotence that binds 
Her childhood now, and through the paths of men 
Will pass, as the charmed bird that haunts the 
serpent's den. 

I 11 



XLVII. 

« We part ! — O Laon, I must dare, nor tremble, 
To meet those looks no more ! — Oh, heavy stroke ! 
Sweet brother of my soul ; can I dissemble 
The agony of this thought 1"' — ^Asthus she spoke 
The gathered sobs her quivering accents broke 
And in my arms she hid her beating breast. 
I remained still for tears — sudden she woke 
As one awakes from sleep, and wildly prest 
My bosom, her whole frame impetuously possest. 

XIVIII. 

" We part to meet again — but yon blue waste, 
Yon desert wide and deep, holds no recess 
Within whose happy silence, thus embraced 
We might survive all ills in one caress : 
Nor doth the grave — I fear 'tis passionless— 
Nor yon cold vacant Heaven : — we meet again 
Within the minds of men, whose lips shall bless 
Our memory, and whose hopes its light retain 
When these dissevered bones are trodden m the 
plain." 

XLIX. 

I could not speak, though she had ceased, for now 
The fountains of her feeling, swdft and deep, 
Seemed to suspend the tumult of their flow ; 
So we arose, and by the starlight steep 
Went homeward — neither did we speak nor weep, 

But pale, were calm With passion thus subdued. 

Like evening shades that o'er the mountains creep 
We moved towards our home ; where, in this mood, 
Each from the other sought refuge in solitude. 

CANTO in. 
I. 

What thoughts had sway o'er Cythna's lonely 

slumber 
That night, I know not ; but my own did seem 
As if they might ten thousand years outnumber 
Of waking life, the visions of a dream. 
Which hid in one dim gulf tlic troubled stream 
Of mind ; a boundless chaos wild and vast. 
Whose limits yet were never memory's theme : 
And I lay struggling as its whirlwinds past, [aghast. 

Sometimes for rapture sick, sometimes for pain 
II. 
Two hours, whose mighty circle did embrace 
More time than might make gray the infant world, 
Rolled thus, aweary and tumultuous space: 
When the third came, like mist on breezes curled. 
From my dim sleep a shadow was unfurled : 
Methought, upon the threshold of a cave 
I sate with Cythna; drooping briony, pearled 
With dew from the wild streamlet's shattered wave, 

Hung, where we sate, to taste the joys which Nature 
gave. 

III. 
We lived a day as we were wont to live, 
But nature had a robe of glory on. 
And the bright air o'er every shape did weave 
Intenser hues, so that the herbless stone. 
The leafless bough among the leaves alone, 
Had being clearer than its own could be, 
And Cythna's pure and radiant self was shone 
In this strange vision, so divine to me. 

That if I loved before, now love was agony. 



83 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Morn fled, noon came, evening, then night de- 
scended, 
And we prolonged cahn talk beneath the sphere 
Of the cahn moon — when, suddenly was blended 
With our repose a nameless sense of fear ; 
And from the cave behind I seemed to hear 
Sounds gathering upwards ! — accents incomplete 
And stifled shiieks,— and now, more near and Jiear, 
A tumult and a rush of thronging feet [beat. 
The cavern's secret dej)ths beneath the earth did 

V. 

The scene was changed, and away, away, away ! 
Through the air and over the sea we sped, 
And Cythna in my sheltering bosom lay, 
And the winds bore me ; — through the darkness 
Around, the gaping earth then vomited [spread 
Legions of foul and ghastly shapes, which hung 
Upon my flight ; and ever as we fled 
They plucked at Cythna — soon to me then clung 
A sense of actual things tliose monstrous dreams 



And I lay struggling in the impotence 
Of sleep, while outward life had burst its bound, 
Though, still deluded, strove the tortured sense 
To its dire wanderings to adapt the sound 
Which in the light of morn was poured around 
Our dwelling — breathless, pale, and unaware 
I rose, and all the cottage crowded found [bare. 
With armed men, whose glittering swords were 
And whose degraded limbs the tyrant's garb did 



And ere with rapid lips and gathered brow 
I could demand the cause — a feeble shriek — 
It was a feeble shriek, faint, far, and low, 
Arrested me — my mien grew calm and meek, 
And, grasping a small knife, I went to seek 
That voice among the crowd — 'twas Cy thna's cry ! 
Beneath most calm resolve did agony wreak 
Its whirlwind rage : — so I past quietly [lie 

Till I beheld, where bound, that dearest child did 

viri. 
I started to behold her, for delight 
And exultation, and a jo3-ance free. 
Solemn, serene, and lofty, filled the light 
Of the calm smile with which she looked on me : 
So that I feared some brainless ecstacy, 
Wrought from that bitter wo had wildered her — 
"Farewell! farewell !" she said, as I drew nigh. 
" At first my peace was marred by this strange stir, 
Now I am calm as truth — its chosen minister. 

IX. 

" Look not so, Laon — say farewell in hope : 
These bloody men are but the slaves who bear 
Their mistress to her task — it was my scope 
The slavery where they drag me now, to share. 
And among captives willing chains to wear 
Awhile — the rest thou knowest — return, dear 
Let our first triumph trample the despair [friend! 
Which would ensnare us now, for in the end 
In victory or in death our hopes and fears must 
blend." 



These words had fallen on my unheeding ear, 
Whilst I had watched the motions of the crew 
With seeming careless grace ; not many were 
Around her, for their comrades just withdrew 
To guard some other Adctim — so I drew 
My knife, and with one impulse, suddenly 
All unaware three of their number slew, [cry 
And grasped a fourth by the throat, and with loud 
M3' countrymen invoked to death or liberty ! 

XI. 

What followed then, I know not — for a stroke 
On my raised arm and naked head came doAvn, 
Filling my eyes with blood — ^when I awoke, 
I felt that they had bound me in my swoon, 
And up a rock which overhangs the town, 
By the steep path were bearing me : below 
The plain was filled with slaughter, — overthrown 
The vineyards and the harvests, and the glow 
Of blazing roofs shone far o'er the white Ocean's 
flow. 

XII. 

Upon that rock a mighty column stood, 
Whose capital seemed sculptured in the sky, 
Which to the wanderers o'er the solitude 
Of distant seas, from ages long gone by, 
Had many a landmark ; o'er its height to fly 
Scarcely the cloud, the vulture, or the blast. 
Has power — and when the shades of evening lie 
On Earth and Ocean, its carved summits cast 
The sunken daylight far through the aerial waste. 

XIII. 

They bore me to a cavern in the hill 
Beneath that column, and unbound me the * 
And one did ship me stark ; and one did fill 
A vessel from the putrid pool ; one bare 
A lighted torch, and four with fiiendless care 
Guided my steps the cavern-paths along. 
Then up a steep and dark and narrow stair 
We wound, until the torches' fiery tongue 
Amid the gushing day beamless and pallid hung. 

XIV. 

They raised me to the platfonn of the pile, 
That column's dizzy height : — the grate of brass 
Through which they thrust me, open stood the 
As to its ponderous and suspended mass, [while 
With chains which eat into the flesh, alas ! 
With brazen links, my naked limbs they bound : 
The grate, as they departed to repass. 
With horrid clangour fell, and the far sound 
Of their retiring steps in the dense gloom was 
drowned. 

XT. 

The noon was calm and bright : — around that 
The overhanging sky and circling sea [column 
Spread forth in silentness profound and solemn 
The darkness of brief fi-enzy cast on me, 
So that I knew not my own misery ; 
The islands and the mountains in the day 
Like clouds reposed afar ; and I could see 
The town among the woods below that lay. 
And the dark rocks which bound the bright and 
glassy bay. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



83 



It was so calm, that scarce the feathery weed 
Sown b}^ some eagle on the topmost stone 
Swaj'ed in the air : — so bright, that noon did breed 
No shadow in the sky beside mine own — 
Mine, and the shadow of my chain alone. 
Below the smoke of roofs involved in flame 
Rested like night, all else was clearly shown 
In the broad glare, yet sound to me none came, 
But of the living blood that ran within my frame. 

xyii. 

The peace of madness fled, and ah, too soon ! 
A ship was lying on the sunny main ; 
Its sails were flagging in the breathless noon — 
Its shadow lay beyond — that sight again 
Waked, with its presence in my tranced brain 
The stings of a known sorrow, keen and cold : 
I knew that ship bore Cythna o'er the plain 
Of waters, to her brightning slavery sold, [uiitold. 
And watched it with such thoughts as must remain 



I watched, until the shades of evening wrapt 
Earth like an exhalation — then the bark 
Moved, for that calm was by the sunset snapt. 
It moved a speck upon the Ocean dark : 
Soon the wan stars came forth, and I could mark 
Its path no more ! I sought to close mine eyes, 
But, like the balls, their lids were stiff and stark ; 
I woidd have risen, bat, ere that I could rise, 
My pai-ched skin was split with piercing agonies. 

XIX. 

I gnawed my brazen chain, and sought to sever 
Its adamantine links, that I might die : 
O Liberty ! forgive the base endeavour, 
Forgive me, if, reserved for victory, 
The Champion of thy faith e'er sought to fly. — 
That stany night, with its clear silence, sent 
Tameless resolve which laughed at misery 
Into my soul — .linked remembrance lent 
To that such power, to me such a severe content. 

XX. 

To lircathe, to be, to hope, or to despair 
And die, I questioned not ; nor, though the Sun 
Its shafts of agony kindling though the air 
Moved over me, nor though in evening dun, 
Or when the stars their visible courses run, 
Or morning, the wide universe was spread 
In dreary calmness round me, did I shun 
Its presence, nor seek refuge with the dead 
From one faint hope whose flower a dropping poison 
shed. 

XXI. 

Two days thus past — neither raved nor died — 
Thirst raged within me, like a scorpion's nest 
Built in mine entrails; I had spurned aside 
The water-vessel, while despair possest Tuprest 
My thoughts, and now no drop remained ! The 
Of the third sun brought hunger — but the crust 
Which had been left, was to my craving breast 
Fuel, not food. I chewed the bitter dust, 
And bit my bloodless arm, and Ucked the brazen 
rust. 



XXII. 

My brain began to fail when the fourth mom 
Burst o'er the golden isles — a fearful sleep. 
Which through the caverns dreary and forlorn 
Of the riven soul, sent its foul dreams to sweep 
With whirlwind swiftness — a fall far and deep, — 
A gulf, a void, a sense of senseless — 
These things dwelt in me, even as shadows keep 
Their watch in some dim charnel's loneliness, 
A shoreless sea, a sky sunless and planetless ! 

XXIII. 

The forms which peopled this terrific trance 
I well remember — like a quire of devils, 
Around me they involved a giddy dance : 
Legions seemed gathering from the misty levels 
Of ocean, to supply those ceaseless revels, [vide 
Foul, ceaseless shadows : — thought could not di- 
The actual world from these entangling evils. 
Which so bemocked themselves, that I descried 
All shapes like mine own self, hideously multiplied. 

XXIV. 

The sense of day and night, of false and true, 
Was dead within me. Yet two visions burst 
That darkness — one, as since that hour I knew, 
Was not a phantom of the realms accurst, 
Where then my spirit dwelt — but of the first 
I know not yet, was it a dream or no. 
But both, though not distincter, were immersed 
In hues which, when through memory's waste 
they flow, [uow. 

Make their divided streams more bright and rapid 

XXV. 

Methought that gate was lifted, and the seven 
Who brought me thither, four stiff corpses bare, 
And from the frieze to the four winds of Heaven 
Hung them on high by the entangled hair ; 
Swarthy were three — the fourth was very fair : 
As they retired, the golden moon upsprung, 
And eagerly, out in the giddy air. 
Leaning that I might eat, I stretched and clung 
Over the shapeless depth in which those corpses 
hung. 

XXVT. 

A woman's shape, now lank and cold and blue, 
The dwelling of the many-coloured worm, 
Hung there, the white and hollow cheek I drew 
To my dry lips — what radiance did inform 
Those horny eyes ] whose was that withered form 1 
Alas, alas ! it seemed that Cythna's ghost 
Laughed in those looks, and that the flesh was warm 
Within my teeth ! — a whirlwind keen as frost 
Then in its sinking gulfs my sickened sphit tost 

XXVII. 

Then seemed it that a tameless hurricane 
Arose, and bore me in its dark career 
Beyond the sun, beyond the stars that wane 
On the verge of formless space — it languished there, 
And, dying, left a silence lone and drear. 
More homb'e than famine : — in the deep 
The shape of an old man did then appear, 
Stately aitd beautiful; that dreadful sleep 
His heavenly smiles dispersed, and I could wake 
and weep. 



84 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXVIII. 

And when the blinding tears had fallen, I saw 
That column, and those corpses, and the moon, 
And felt the poisonous tooth of hunger gnaw 
My vitals, I rejoiced, as if the boon 
Of senseless death would be accorded soon ; — 
When from that stony gloom a voice arose, 
Solemn and sweet as when low minds attune 
The midnight pines ; the grate did then unclose, 
And on that reverend form the moonlight did repose. 



He struck my chains, and gently spake and smiled: 
As they were loosened by that Hermit old, 
Mine eyes were of their madness half beguiled. 
To answer those kind looks. — He did enfold 
His giant arms around me to uphold 
My wretched frame, my scorched limbs he wound 
In linen moist and balmy, and as cold 
As dew to dropping leaves : — the chain, with sound 
Like earthquake, through the chasm of that steep 
stair did bound 

XXX. 

As, lifting me, it fell ! — What next I heard, 
Were billows leaping on the harbour bar. 
And the shrill sea-wind, whose breath idly stirred 
My hair ; — I looked abroad, and saw a star 
Shining beside a sail, and distant far 
That mountain and its column, the known mark 
Of those who in the wide deep wandering are, 
So that I feared some Spirit, fell and dark, 
In trance had lain me thus within a fiendish bark. 



For now, indeed, over the salt sea billow 
I sailed : yet dared not look upon the shape 
Of him who ruled the helm, although the pillow 
For my light head was hollowed in his lap. 
And my bare limbs his mantle did enwrap, 
Fearing it was a fiend : at last, he bent 
O'er me his aged face ; as if to snap 
Those dreadful thoughts the gentle grandsire bent, 
And to my inmost soul his sootliing looks he sent. 



A soft and healing potion to my lips 
At intervals he raised — now looked on high, 
To mark if yet the starry giant dips 
His zone in the dim sea — ^now cheeringly. 
Though he said little, did he speak to me. 
" It is a friend beside thee — take good cheer, 
Poor victim, thou art now at liberty !" 
I joyed as those a human tone to hear. 
Who in cells deep and lone have languished many 
a year. 

XXXIII. 

A dim and feeble joy, whose glimpses oft. 
Were quenched in a relapse of wildering dreams. 
Yet still mcthought we sailed, until aloft 
The stars of night grew pallid, and the beams 
Of morn descended on the ocean-streams. 
And still that aged man, so grand and mild. 
Tended me, even as some sick mother seemg 
To hang in hope over a dying child. 
Till in the azure East darkness again was piled. 



And then the night-wind, streaming from the shore. 
Sent odours dying sweet across the sea. 
And the swift boat the little waves which bore. 
Were cut by its keen keel, though slantingly ; 
Soon I could hear the leaves sigh, and could see 
The myrtle-blossom starring the dim grove, 
As past the pebbly beach the boat did flee 
On sidelong wing into a silent cove, 
Where ebon pines a shade under the starlight wove. 

CANTO IV. 
I. 

The old man took the oars, and the bark 
Smote on the beach beside a tower of stone ; 
It was a crumbhng heap whose portal dark 
With blooming ivy trails was overgrown ; 
L^pon whose floor the spangling sands were strown, 
And rarest sea-shells, which the eternal flood. 
Slave to the mother of the montlis, had tlirown 
Within the walls of that great tower, which stood 

A changeling of man's art, nursed amid Nature's 
brood. 

II. 
When tlie old man his boat had anchored, 
He wound me in his arms with tender care. 
And very few but kindly words he said. 
And bore me through the tower adown a stair. 
Whose smooth descent some ceaseless step to wear 
For many a year had fallen. — We came at last 
To a small chamber, which with mosses rare 
Was tapestried, where me his soft hands placed 

Upon a couch of grass and oak-leaves interlaced. 
III. 
The moon was darting tlu-ough the lattices 
Its yellow light, warm as the beams of day — 
So warm, that to admit the dewy breeze. 
The old man opened them ; the moonlight lay, 
L'pon a lake whose waters wove their play 
Even to the threshold of that lonely home : 
Within was seen in the dim wavering ray. 
The antic sculptured roof, and many a tome 

Whose lore had made that sage all that he had 
become. 

IV. 

The rock-built barrier of the sea was past, — 
And I was on the margin of a lake, 
A lonely lake, amid the forests vast 
And snowy mountains : — did my spirit wake 
From sleep, as many-coloured as the snake 
That girds eternity 1 in life and tnith. 
Might now my heart its cravings ever slake ? 
Was Cythna then a dream, and all my youth. 
And all its hopes and fears, and all its joy and ruth ? 

T. 

Thus madness came again, — a milder madness. 
Which darkened nought but time's unquiet flow 
With supernatural shades of clinging sadness ; 
That gentle Hermit, in my helpless wo, 
By my sick couch was busy to and fro, 
Lik(^a strong spirit ministrant of good : 
M^hen I was healed, he led me forth to show 
The wonders of the sylvan solitude. 
And we together sate by that isle-fretted flood. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



85 



He knew his soothing words to weave with skill 
From all my madness told : like mine own heart, 
Of Cythna would he question me, until 
That thrilling name had ceased to make me start. 
From his familiar lips — it was not art. 
Of wisdom and of justice when he spoke — 
When mid soft looks of pity, there would dart 
A glance as keen as is the lightning's stroke 
When it doth rive the knots of some ancestral oak. 

VIT. 

Thus slowly from my brain the darkness rolled. 
My thoughts their due aiTay did reassume 
Through the enchantment of that Hermit old ; 
Then I bethought me of the glorious doom 
Of those who sternly struggle to relume 
The lamp of Hope o'er man's bewildered lot, 
And, sitting by the waters, in the gloom 
Of eve, to that friend's heart I told my thought — 
That heart which had grown old, but had corrupted 
not. 

Till. 

That hoary man had spent his livelong age, 
In converse with the dead, who leave the stamp 
Of ever-burning thoughts on many a page, 
When they are gone into the senseless damp 
Of graves ! — his spirit thus became a lamp 
Of splendour, like to those on which it fed. 
Through peopled haunts, the City and the Camp, 
Deep thirst for knowledge had his footsteps led, 
And all the ways of men among mankind he read. 

IX. 

But custom maketh blind and obdurate 
The loftiest hearts : — he had beheld the wo 
In which mankind was bound, but deemed that fate 
Which made them abject would preserve them so; 
And in such faith, some steadfast joy to know. 
He sought this cell : but, when fame went abroad 
That one in Argolis did undergo 
Torture for hberty, and that the crowd 
High truths from gifted hps had heard and under- 
stood, 

X. 

And that the multitude was gathering wide, 
His spirit leaped within his aged frame; 
In lonely peace he could no more abide, 
But to the land on which the victor's flame 
Had fed, my native land, the Hermit came ; 
Each heart was there a shield, and every tongue 
Was as a sword of truth — young Laon's name 
Rallied their secret hopes, though tyrants sung 
Hymns of triumphant joy our scattered tribes 
among. 

XI. 

He came to the lone column on the rock. 
And with his sweet and mighty eloquence 
The hearts of those who watched it did unlock, 
And made them melt in tears of penitence. 
They gave him entrance free to bear me thence, 
" Since this," the old man said, " seven years are 
While slowly truth on thy benighted sense f^ent. 
Has crept ; the hope which A\'ildered it has lent. 
Meanwhile, to me the power of a sublime intent. 



"Yes, from the records of my youthful state, 
And from the lore of bards and sages old, 
From whatsoe'er my wakened thoughts create 
Out of the hopes of thine aspirings bold, 
Have I collected language to unfold 
Truth to my countrymen ; from shore to shore 
Doctrines of human power my words have told ; 
They have been heard, and men aspire to more 
Than they have ever gained or ever lost of yore. 

XIII. 

" In secret chambers parents read and weep, 
My writings to their babes, no longer blind ; 
And young men gather when their tyrants sleep, 
And vows of faith each to the other bind ; 
And marriageable maidens, who have pined 
With love, till life seemed melting through their 
A warmer zeal, a nobler hope, now find ; [look, 
And every bosom thus is wrapt and shook. 
Like autumn's myriad leaves in one swoln moun- 
tain brook. 

XIV. 

" The tyrants of the Golden City tremble 
At voices which are heard about the streets; 
The mmisters of fraud can scarce dissemble 
The lies of their own heart ; but when one meets 
Another at the shrine, he inly weets. 
Though he says nothing, that the truth is known ; 
Murdersrs are pale upon the judgment-seats, 
And gold grows \ile even to the wealthy crone, 
And laughter fills the Fane, and curses shake the 
Throne. 

XV. 

« Kind thoughts, and mighty hopes, and gentle 
Abound, for fearless love, and the pure law [deeds 
Of mild equality and peace succeeds 
To faiths which long have held the world in awe. 
Bloody, and false, and cold: — as whirlpools draw 
All wrecks of Ocean to their chasm, the sway 
Of thy strong genius, Laon, which foresaw 
This hope, compels all spirits to obey, [array. 
Which round thy secret strength now throng in wide 

XVI. 

« For I have been thy passive instrument"— 
(As thus the old man spake, his countenance 
Gleamed on me like a spirit's) — " thou hast lent 
To me, to all, the power to advance 
Towards this unforeseen deliverance 
From our ancestral chains — ay, thou didst rear 
That lamp of hope on high, which time, nor chance, 
Nor change may not extinguish, and my share 
Of good was o'er the world its gathered beams to 
bear. 

XTII. 

" But 1, alas! am both unknown and old, 
And though the woof of wisdom I know well 
To dye in hues of language, I am cold 
In seeming, and the hopes which inly dwell 
My manners note that I did long repel ; 
But Laon's name to the tumultuous throng 
Were like the star whose beams the waves compel 
And tempests, and his soul-subduing tongue 
Were as a lance to quell the mailed crest of wrong. 
n 



66 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVIII. 

« Perchance blood need not flow, if thou at length 
Wouldst rise ; perchance the very slaves wrould 

spare 
Their brethren and themselves ; great is the 
Of words — for lately did a maiden fair, [strength 
Who fi'om her childhood has been tanght to bear 
The tyrant's heaviest yoke, arise, and make 
Her sex the law of truth and freedom hear ; 
And with these quiet words — ' for thine own sake 
I prithee spare me,' — did with ruth so take. 

XIX. 

" All hearts, that even the torturer, who had bound 
Her meek calm frame, ere it was yet impaled, 
Loosened her weeping then ; nor could be found 
One human hand to harm her — unassailed 
Therefore, she walks through the great City, veiled 
In virtue's adamantine eloquence, [mailed, 

'Gainst scorn, and death, and pain, thus trebly 
And blending in the smiles of that defence. 
The Serpent and the Dove, Wisdom and Innocence. 

XX. 

" Tlie vinld-ej'ed women throng around her path : 
From their luxurious dungeons, from the dust 
Of meaner thralls, from the oppressor's wrath. 
Or the caresses of his sated lust. 
They congregate : — in her they put their trust ; 
The tyrants send their armed slaves to quell 
Her power ; — they, even like a thunder gust 
Caught by some forest, bend beneath the spell 
Of that young maiden's speech, and to then chiefs 
rebel. 

XXI. 

" Thus she doth equal laws and justice teach 
To woman, outraged and polluted long ; 
Gathering the sweetest fi-uit in human reach 
For those fair hands now free, while armed wrong 
Trembles before her look, though it be strong ; 
Thousands thus dwell beside her, virgins bright, 
And matrons with their babes, a stately throng ! 
Lovers renew the tows which they did plight 
In early faith, and hearts long parted now unite. 

XXII. 

" And homeless orjihans find a home near her, 
And those poor victims of the proud, no less. 
Fair wrecks, on whom the smiling world with stir, 
Thrusts the redemption of its wickedness : — • 
In squalid huts, and m its palaces 
Sits Lust alone, while o'er the land is borne 
Her voice, whose awful sweetness doth repress 
All evil, and her foes relenting turn, 
And cast the vote of love in hope's abandoned urn. 

XXIII. 

" So in the populous City, a young maiden 
Has baffled Havoc of the prey which he 
Marks as his o^vn, whene'er with chains o'erladen 
Men make them arms to hurl down tyranny, 
False arbiter between the bound and free ; 
And o'er the land, in hamlets and in towns 
The multitudes collect tumultuously. 
And throng in arms ; but tyranny disowns 
Their claim, and gathers strength around its trem- 
bling thrones. 



" Blood soon, although unwillingly, to shed 
The free cannot forbear — ^the Queen of Slaves, 
The hood-winked Angel of the blind and dead, 
Custom, with iron mace points to the graves 
Where her own standard desolately waves 
Over the dust of Prophets and of Kuigs. 
Many yet stand in her an-ay — ' she paves 
Her path with human hearts,' and o'er it flings 
The wildering gloom of her immeasurable wuigs. 



" There is a plain beneath the City's wall, 
Bounded by misty mountains, wide and vast ; 
Millions there lift at Freedom's thrilling call 
Ten thousand standards wide ; they load the blast 
Which bears one sound of man)' voices past. 
And startles on his throne their sceptred foe : 
He sits amid his idle pomp aghast. 
And that his power hath past away, doth know — 
Why pause the victor swords to seal his overthrow 1 

XXTI. 

" The tyrant's guards resistance yet maintain : 
Fearless, and fierce, and hard as beasts of blood ; 
They stand a speck amid the peopled plain; 
Carnage and ruin have been made their food 
From infancy — ^ill has become their good, 
And for its hateful sake their will has wove 
The claims which eat their hearts — ^the multitude 
Surrounding them, with words of human love. 
Seek from their own decay their stubborn minds to 
move. 

XXTII. 

« Over the land is felt a sudden pause. 
As night and day those ruthless bands around 
The watch of love is kept: — a trance which awes 
The thoughts of men with hope — as when the sound 
Of whirlwind, whose fierce blasts the waves and 

clouds confound. 
Dies suddenly, the mariner in fear 
Feels silence sink upon his heart — thus bound. 
The conqueror's pause, and oh ! may freemen ne'er 
Clasp the relentless knees of Dread, the mm-derer ! 

XXVIII. 

"If blood be shed, 'tis but a change and choice 
Of bonds, — slavery to cowardice 
A %vi-etched fall ! — uplift thy charmed voice, 
Pour on those evil men the love that lies 
Hovering within those spirit-soothing eyes — 
Arise, my fi-iend, farewell !" — As thus he spake, 
From the green earth lightly I did arise. 
As one out of dim dreams that doth awake. 
And looked upon the depth of that reposing lake, 

XXIX. 

I saw my countenance reflected there ; — 
And then my youth full on me like a v.uid 
Descending on still waters — my thin hair 
M'as prematurely gray, m}- face was lined 
With channels, such as suffering leaves behind. 
Not age ; my brow was pale, but in my cheek 
And lips a flush of gnawing fire did find [speak 
Their food and dwelling; though mine eyes might 
A subtle mind and strongwitliin a frame thus weak. 



And though their lustre now was spent and faded, 
Yet in my hollow looks and withered mien 
The likeness of a shape for which was braided 
The brightest woof of genius, still was seen — 
One who, methought, had gone from the world's 
And left it vacant — 'twas her lover's face — [scene, 
It might resemble her — it once had been 
The min'or of her thoughts, and still the grace 

Which her mind's shadow cast, left there a linger- 
ing trace. 

xxxr. 
What then was 1 1 She slumbered with the dead. 
Glory and joy and peace, had come and gone. 
Doth the cloud perish, when the beams are fled. 
Which steeped its skirts in gold ! or dark, and lone. 
Doth it not through the paths of night unknown, 
On outspread wings of its own wind upborne 
Pour rain upon the earth 1 the stars are shown, 
When the cold moon sharpens her silver horn 

Under the sea, and make the wide night not forlorn, 

XXXII. 

Strengthened in heart, yet sad, that aged man 
I left, with interchange of looks and tears. 
And lingering speech, and to the Camp began 
My way. O'er many a mountain chain which rears 
Its hundred crests aloft, my spirit bears 
My frame ; o'er many a dale and many a moor, 
And gaily now me seems serene earth wears 
The bloomy spring's star-bright investiture, 

A vision which aught sad from sadness might allure, 
xxxiii. 
My powers revived within me, and I went 
As one whom winds waft o'er the bending grass, 
Tlirough many a vale of that broad continent. 
At night when I reposed, fair dreams did pass 
Before my pillow ; — my own Cythna was 
Not like a child of death, among them ever ; 
When I arose from rest, a woful mass 
That gentlest sleep seemed from my life to sever, 

As if the light of youth were not withdrawn for ever. 

, XXXIV. 

Aye, as I went, that maiden, who had reared 
The torch of Truth afar, of whose high deeds 
The Hermit in his pilgrimage had heard, [feeds 
Haunted my thoughts. — Ah, Hope its sickness 
With whatsoe'er it finds, or flowers or weeds ! 
Could she be Cythna I — Was that corpse a shade 
Such as self torturing thought from madness 

breeds 1 
Why was this hope not torture 1 yet it made 
A light around my steps which would not ever fade. 

CANTO V. 
I. 

Over the utmost hill at length I sped, 
A snowy steep : — the moon was hanging low 
Over the Asian mountains, and outspread 
The plain, the City, and the Camp, below. 
Skirted the midnight Ocean's glimmering flow. 
The City's moon-lit spires and myriad lamps, 
Like stars in a sublunar sky did glow. 
And fires blazed far amid the scattered camps, 
lAke springs of flame, which burst where'er swift 
Earthquake stamps. 



All slept but those in watchful arms who stood, 
And those who sate tending the beacon's light, 
And the few sounds from that vast multitude 
Made silence more profound — Oh, what a might 
Of human thought was cradled in that night F 
How many hearts impenetrably veiled 
Beat underneath its shade what secret fight, 
Evil and good, in woven passions mailed. 
Waged through that silent throng, a war that 
never failed ! 

HI. 

And now the Power of Good held victory, 
So, through the labyrinth of many a tent, 
Among the silent millions who did lie 
In innocent sleep, exultingly I went ; 
The moon had left Heaven desert now, but lent 
From eastern morn the first faint lustre showed 
An armed youth — over his spear he bent 
His downward face- — " A fi-iend !" I cried aloud. 
And quickly common hopes made freemen under- 
stood. 

IT. 

I sate beside him while the morning beam 
Crept slowly over Heaven, and talked with him 
Of those immortal hopes, a glorious theme ! 
Which led us forth, until the stars grew dim : 
And all the while, methought, his voice did swim, 
As if it drowned in remembrance were 
Of thoughts which make the moist eyes overbrim : 
At last, when daylight 'gan to fill the air, 
He looked on me, and cried m wonder, " Thou art 
here !" 

V. 

Then, suddenly, I knew it was the youth 
In whom its earhcst hopes my spirit found ; 
But euNious tongues had stained his spotless truth, 
And thoughtless pride his love in silence bound. 
And shame and sorrow mine in toils had wound, 
Whilst he was innocent, and I deluded. 
The truth now came upon me, on the ground 
Tears of repenting joy, which fast intruded. 
Fell fast, and o'er its peace our minglmg spirits 
brooded. 

VT. 

Thus, while vith rapid lips and earnest eyes 
We talked, a sound of sweeping conflict spread, 
As from the earth did suddenly arise ; 
From every tent, roused by that clamour dread. 
Our bands outsprung and seized their amis ; we sped 
Towards the sound : our tribes were gathering far, 
Those sanguine slaves amid ten thousand dead 
Stabbed in their sleep, trampled in treacherous war. 
The gentle hearts whose power their lives had 
sought to spare. 

TII. 

Like rabid snakes, that sting some gentle child 
Who brings them food, when winter false and fair 
Allures them forth with its cold smiles, so wild 
They rage amoiig the camp ; — they overbear 
The patriot hosts — confusion, then despair 
Descends like night — v.'hen " Laon !" one did cry: 
Like a ghost bright from Heaven that shout did scare 
The slaves, and, ■N'i-idcning through the vaulted sky, 
Seemed sent from Earth to Heaven in sign of victory. 



88 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



In sudden panic those false murderers fled, 
Like insect tribes before the northern gale : 
But, swifter still, our hosts encompassed 
Their shattered ranks, and in a craggy vale, 
Where even their fierce despair might nought avail, 
Hemmed them around ! — and then revenge and 
Made the high virtue of the patriots fail : [fear 
One pointed on liis foe the mortal spear — 
I rushed before its point, and cried, " Forbear, for- 
bear !" 

IX. 

The spear transfixed my arm that was uplifted 
In swift expostulation, and the blood [gifted 

Gushed round its point : I smiled, and — " Oh ! thou 
With eloquence which shall not be withstood, 
Flow thus !" — I cried in joy, " thou vital flood, 
Until my heart be dry, ere thus the cause 
For which thou wert aught worthy be subdued — 
Ah, ye are pale, — ye weep, — your passions 
pause, — 
'Tis well ! ye feel the truth of love's benignant laws. 

X. 

« Soldiers, our brethren and our fiiends are slain. 
Ye murdered them, I think, as they did sleep ! 
Alas, what have ye done ? The slightest pain 
Which ye might suffer, there were eyes to weep ; 
But ye have quenched them — there were smiles 

to steep 
Your hearts in balm, but they are lost in wo ; 
And those whom love did set his watch to keep 
Around your tents truth's freedom to bestow. 
Ye stabbed as they did sleep — but they forgive ye 
now. 

XI. 

" O wherefore should ill ever flow fi-om ill, 
And pain still keener pain for ever breed ] 
We all are brethren — even the slaves who kill 
For hire, are men ; and to avenge misdeed 
On the misdocr, doth but Misery feed 
With her own broken heart ! Earth, Heaven ! 
And thou, dread Nature, which to every deed 
And all that lives, or is to be, hath given, [given. 
Even as to thee have these done ill, and are for- 

XII. 

" Join then your hands and hearts, and let the past 
Be as a grave which gives not up its dead 
To evil thoughts." — A film then overcast 
My sense with dimness, for the wound, which bled 
Freshly, swift shadows o'er mine eyes had shed. 
When I awoke, I lay 'mid friends and foes, 
And earnest countenances on me shed 
The light of questioning looks, whilst one did close 
My wound with balmiest herbs, and soothed me to 
repose ; 

XIIT. 

And one, whose spear had pierced me, leaned beside 
With quivering lips and humid eyes ; — and all 
Seemed like some brothers on a journey wide 
Gone forth, whom now strange meeting did befall 
In a strange land, round one whom they might call 
Their friend, their chief, their father, for assay 
Of peril, which had saved them from the thrall 
Of death, now suffering. Thus the vast array 
Of those fi-aternal bands were reconciled that day. 



Lifting the thunder of their acclamation 
Towards the City, then the multitude. 
And I among them, went in joy — a nation 
Made free by love ; — a mighty brotherhood 
Linked by a jealous interchange of good ; 
A glorious pageant, more magnificent 
Than kingly slaves, arrayed in gold and blood ; 
When they return from carnage, and are sent 
In triumph bright beneath the populous battlement. 

XT. 

Afar, tlie City walls were thronged on high, 
And myriads on each giddy turret clung, 
And to each spire far lessening in the sky, 
Bright pennons on the idle winds were hung ; 
As we approached, a shout of joyance sprung 
At once from all the crowd, as if the vast 
And peopled Earth its boundless skies among 
The sudden clamour of delight had cast, 
When from before its face some general wi'eck 
had past. 

XVI. 

Our armies through the City's hundred gates 
Were poured, like brooks which to the rocky lair 
Of some deep lake, whose silence them awaits, 
Throng fi-om the momitains when the storms are 

there ; 
And, as we passed through the calm sunny air, 
A thousand flower-inwoven crowns were shed, 
The token flowers of truth and fi-eedom fair. 
And fairest hands bound them on many a head, 
Those angels of love's heaven, that over all was 
spread. 

XTII. 

I trod as one tranced in some rapturous vision : 
Those bloody bands so lately reconciled. 
Were, ever as they went, by the contrition 
Of anger turned to love from ill beguiled, 
And every one on them more gently smiled, 
Because they had done evil : — the sweet awe 
Of such mild looks made their own hearts grow 
And did with soft attraction ever draw [mild. 
Their spirits to the love of freedom's equal law. 

XVIII. 

And they, and all, in one loud symphony 
My name with Liberty commingling, lifted, 
" The fi-icnd and the preserver of the free ! 
The parent of this joy !" and fair eyes, gifted 
With feelings caught from one who had uplifted 
The Ught of a great spirit, round me shone ; 
And all the shapes of this grand scenery shifted 
liike restless clouds before the steadfast sun, — 
Where was that Maid ? I asked, but it was known 
of none. 

XIX. 

Laone was the name her love had chosen. 
For she was nameless, and her birth none knew: 
Where was Laone now 1 — The words were fro-zcn 
Within my lips with fear ; but to subdue 
Sucli dreadful hope, to my great task was due. 
And when at length one brought reply, that she 
To-morrow would appear, I then withdrew 
To j udgc what need for that great throng might be. 
For now the stars came thick over the twilight sea. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM, 



89 



Yet need was none for rest or food to care, 
Even though that multitude was passing great, 
Since each one for the other did prepare 
AH kindly succour — Therefore to the gate 
Of the Imperial House, now desolate, 
I passed, and there was found aghast, alone, 
The fkllen Tyrant !— Silently he sate 
Upon the footstool of his golden throne, 

Which, starred with sunny gems, m its own lustre 
shone. 

xxr. 
Alone, but for one child, who led before him 
A graceful dance : the only living thing 
Of all the crowd, which thither to adore him 
Flocked yesterday, who solace sought to bring 
In his abandonment ! — She knew the King 
Had praised her dance of yore, and now she wove 
Its circles, aye weeping and murmuring 
'Mid her sad task of unregarded love. 

That to no smiles it might his speechless sadness 
move. 

XXTI. 

She fled to him, and wildly clasped his feet 
When human steps were heard : — ^he moved nor 

spoke, 
Nor changed his hue, nor raised his looks to meet 
The gaze of strangers. — Our loud entrance woke 
The echoes of the hall, which circling broke 
The calm of its recesses, — like a tomb 
Its sculptured walls vacantly to the stroke 
Of footfalls answered, and the twilight's gloom 
Lay like a charnel's mist within the ratUant dome. 

XXIII. 

The little child stood up when we came nigh ; 
Her lips and cheeks seemed very pale and wan. 
But on her forehead and within her eye 
Lay beauty, which makes hearts that feed thereon 
Sick with excess of sweetness ; — on the throne 
She leaned. The King, with gathered brow and lips 
Wreathed by long scorn, did inly sneer and frown 
With hue like that vrhen some great painter dips 
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse. 

XXIV. 

She stood beside him like a rainbow braided 
Within some storm, when scarce its shadows vast 
From the blue paths of the swift sun have faded. 
A sweet and solemn smile, like Cythna's, cast 
One moment's light, which made my heart heat fast 
O'er that child's parted lips — a gleam of bliss, 
A shade of vanished days, — as the tears past 
Which wrapt it, even as with a father's kiss 
I pressed those softest eyes in trembling tenderness. 

XXV. 

The sceptred wretch then from that solitude 
I drew, and of his change compassionate, 
With words of sadness soothed his rugged mood. 
But he, while pride and fear held deep debate, 
With sullen guile of ill-dissembled hate 
Glared on me as a toothless snake might glare: 
Pity, not scorn, I felt, though desolate 
The desolator now, and unaware 
The curses which he mocked had caught him by 
the hair. 

12 



XXVI. 

I led him forth from that which now might seem 
A gorgeous grave : through portals sculptured deep 
With imagery beautiful as dream 
We went, and left the shades which tend on sleep 
Over its unregarded gold to keep 
Their silent watch.. — The child trod faintingly, 
And, as she went, the tears which she cUd weep 
Glanced in the starhght ; wildered seemed she. 
And when I spake, for sobs she could not answer 
me. 

XXVIT. 

At last the tyrant cried " She hungers, slave ! 
Stab her, or give her bread!" — ^It was a tone 
Such as sick fancies in a new-made grave 
Might hear. I trembled, for the truth was known. 
He with this child had thus been left alone. 
And neither had gone forth for food, — but he 
In mingled pride and awe cowered near liis throne. 
And she, a nursling of captivity. 
Knew nought beyond those walls, nor what such 
change might be. 

XXVIII. 

And he was troubled at a charm withdrawn 
Thus suddenly ; that sceptres ruled no more — 
That even fi-om gold the dreadful strength was gone 
Which once made all things subject to its power — 
Such wonder seized him, as if hour by hour 
The past had come again ; and the swift fall 
Of one so great and terrible of yore 
To desolateness, in the hearts of all 
Like wonder stirred, who saw such awful change 
befall. 

XXIX 

A mighty crowd, such as the wide land pours 
Once in a thousand years, now gathered round 
The fallen tyrant ; — like the rush of showers 
Of hail in spring, pattering along the ground, 
Their many footsteps fell, else came no sound 
From the wide multitude -. that lonely man 
Then knew the burden of his change, and found. 
Concealing in the dust his visage wan, 
Refuge from the keen looks which through his bosom 
ran. 

XXX. 

And he was faint withal. I sate beside him 
Upon the earth, and took that child so fair 
From his weak arms, that ill might none betide him 
Or her; — when food was brought to them, her 
To his averted lips the child did bear ; [share 
But when she saw he had enough, she ate 
And v/ept the while ; — the lonely man's despair 
Hunger then overcame, and of his state 
Forgetful, on the dust as in a trance he sate. 

XXXI. 

Slowly the silence of the nndtitudes 
Past, as when far is heard in some lone dell 
The gathering of a wind among the woods — 
And he is fallen ! they cry ; he who did dwell 
Like famine or the plague, or aught more fell, 
Among our homes, is flillcn ! the murderer 
Who slaked his thirsting soul as from a well 
Of blood and tears with ruin ! He is here ! 
Sunk in a gulf of scorn from which none may him 
rear ! 

h2 



90 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXXII. 

Then washeard-He who judged lethua be brought 
To judgment ! Blood for blood cries from the soil 
On which liis crimes have deep pollution wrought ! 
Shall Othman only unavenged despoil 1 
Shall they, who by the stress of grinding toil 
Wrest from the unwilling earth his luxuries, 
Perish for crime, while his foul blood may boil, 
Or creep within his veins at will 1 Arise ! 
And to high justice make her chosen sacrifice. 



« What do ye seek 1 what fear ye !" then I cried, 
Suddenly starting forth, " that ye should shed 
The blood of Othman — if your hearts are tried 
In the true love of freedom, cease to dread 
This one poor lonely man — beneath Heaven shed 
In purest light above us all, through earth, 
Maternal earth, who doth her sweet smiles spread 
For all, let him go free ; until the worth 
Of human nature win from these a second bu'th. 

XXXIT. 

" What call ye justice ? Is there one who ne'er 
In secret thought has wished another's ill 1 — 
Are ye all pure 1 Let those stand forth who hear, 
And tremble not. Shall they insult and kill. 
If such they be 1 their mild eyes can they fill 
Wtth the false anger of the hypocrite? 
Alas, such were not pure — the chastened will 
Of virtue sees that justice is the light 
Of love, and not revenge, and ten-or and despite." 

XXXV. 

The murmur of the people, slowly dying, 
Paused as I spake ; then those who near me were, 
Cast gentle looks where the lone man was lying 
ShroucUng his head, which now that infant fair 
Clasped on her lap in silence ; — through the air 
Sobs were then heard, and many kissed my feet 
In pity's madness, and, to the despair 
Of him whom late they cursed, a solace sweet 
His very victims brought — soft looks and speeches 
meet. 

XXXVI. 

Then to a home, for his repose assigned, 
Accompanied by the still throng he went 
In silence, where, to soothe his rankling mind, 
Some likeness of his ancient state was lent ; 
And, if his heart could have been innocent 
As those who pardoned him, he might have ended 
His days in peace ; but his straight lips were bent, 
Men said, into a smile which guile portended, 
A sight vidth which that child like hope with fear 
was blended. 

XXXTII. 

'Twas midnight now, tire eve of that gi-eat day, 
Whereon the many nations at whose call 
The chains of earth like mist melted away, 
Decreed to hold a sacred Festival, 
A rite to attest the equality of all 
Who live. So to their homes, to dream or wake 
All went. The sleepless silence did recall 
Laone to my thoughts, with hopes that make 
The flood recede from which their tlui-st they seek 
to slake. 



XXXVIII. 

The dawn flowed forth, and fi'om its purple 

fountains 
I drank those hopes which make the spirit quail, 
As to the plain between the misty mountains 
And the great City, with a countenance pale 
I went : — it was a sight which might avail 
To make men weep exulting tears, for whom 
Now first from human power the reverend veil 
Was torn, to see Earth from her general womb 
Pour forth her swarming sons to a fraternal 

doom : 

XXXIX. 

To see, far glancing in the misty morning, 
The signs of that iimumerable host. 
To hear one sound of many made, the warning 
Of Earth to Heaven from its free children tost, 
While the eternal hills, and the sea lost 
In wavering hght, and, starring the blue sky 
The city's myriad spires of gold, almost 
With human joy made mute society 
Its witnesses with men who must hereafter be. 

XL. 

To see, like some vast island from the Ocean, 
The Altar of the Federation rear 
Its pile i'the midst ; a work, which the devotion 
Of millions in one night created there. 
Sudden, as when the moonrise makes appear 
Strange clouds in the east ; a marble pyramid 
Distinct with steps : that mighty shape did wear 
The light of genius ; its still shadow hid 
Far ships : to know its height the morning mists 
forbid ! 

XLI. 

To hear the restless multitudes for ever 
Around the base of that great Altar flow, 

■ As on some mountain islet burst and shiver 
Atlantic waves ; and solemnly and slow 
As the wind bore that tumult to and fro, 
To feel the dreamlike music, which did swim 
Like beams through floating clouds on waves 
Falling in pauses fxom that Altar dim [below, 

As silver-sounding tongues breathed an aerial 
hymn. 

XLII. 

To hear, to see, to live, was on that mom 
Lethean joy ! so that all those assembled 
Cast off their memories of the j^ast outworn : 
Two only bosoms with then own life trembled, 
And mine was one,' — and we had both dissembled ; 
So with a beating heart I went, and one, 
Who having much, covets yet more, resembled ; 
A lost and dear possession, which not won, 
He walks in lonely gloom beneath the noonday 
sun. 

XLIII. 

To the great Pyramid I came : its stair 
With female quires was thronged : the loveliest 
Among the free, grouped with its sculptures rare. 
As I approached, the morning's golden mist, 
Which now the wonder-stricken breezes kist 
With their cold hps, fled, and the summit shone 
Like Athos seen from Samothracia, drest 
In earliest hght by vintagers, and one 
Sate there, a female shape upon an ivory throne. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



91 



XLIV. 

A Form most like the imagined habitant 
Of silver exhalations sprung from dawn, 
By winds which feed on sunrise woven, to enchant 
The faiths of men : all mortal eyes were drawn, 
As famished mariners through strange seas gone. 
Gaze on a burning watch-tower, by the light 
Of those divinest hneaments — alone [fair sight 
With thoughts which none could share, from that 
I turned in sickness, for a veil shrouded her coun- 
tenance bright. 

XZY. 

And, neither did I hear the acclamations 
Which, from brief silence bursting, filled the an", 
With her strange name and mine, from all the 

nations 
Which we, they said, in strength had gathered there 
From the sleep of bondage ; nor the vision fair 
Of that bright pageantry beheld, — ^but blind 
And silent, as a breathing corpse did fare, 
Leaning upon my fr-iend, till, like a wind [mind. 
To fevered cheeks, a voice flowed o'er my troubled 

XLTI. 

Like music of some minstrel heavenly-gifted. 
To one whom fiends enthral, this voice to me ; 
Scarce did I wish her veil to be uplifted, 
I was so calm and joyous. — I could see 
The platform where we stood, the statues three 
Which kept their marble watch on that high shrine. 
The multitudes, the mountains, and the sea ; 
As when eclipse hath passed, things sudden shine 
To men's astonished eyes most clear and crystalhne. 

XLTir. 

At first Laone spoke most tremulously : 
But soon her voice that calmness which it shed 
Gathered, and — " Thou art whom I sought to see, 
And thou art our first votary here," she said : 
" I had a dear friend once, but he is dead ! — ■ 
And of all those on the wide earth who breathe, 
Thou dost resemble him alone — I spread 
This veil between us two, that thou beneath 

Should'st image one who may have been long lost 
in death. 

XLvrii. 
" For this wilt thou not henceforth pardon me 1 
Yes, but those joys which silence well requite 
Forbid reply : why men have chosen me 
To be the Priestess of this holiest rite 
I scarcely know, but that the floods of light 
Which flow over the world, have borne me hither 
To meet thee, long lost dear ; and now unite 
Thine hand with mine, and may all comfort wither 

From both the hearts whose pulse in joy now beats 
together, 

XT.IX. 

" If our own will as others' law we bind. 
If the foul worship trampled here we fear ; 
If as ourselves we cease to love our kind !" — 
She yaused, and pointed upwards — sculptured 

there 
Three shapes around her ivory throne appear ; 
One was a giant, like a child asleep 
On a loose rock, whose grasp crushed, as it were 
In dream, sceptres and crowns ; and one did keep 
Its watchful eyes in doubt whether to smile or weep ; 



A Woman sitting on the sculptured disk 

Of the broad earth, and feeding fi-om one breast 

A human babe and a young basilisk ; 

Her looks were sweet as Heaven's when loveliest 

In Autumn eves The third Image was drest 

In white wings swift as clouds in winter skies. 
Beneath his feet, 'mongst ghastliest forms, represt 
Lay Faith, an obscene worm, who sought to rise, 
While calmly on the Sun he turned his diamond 
eyes. 

LI. 

Beside that Image then I sate, while she 
Stood, 'mid the throngs which ever ebbed and 
Like light amid the shadows of the sea [flowed 
Cast from one cloudless star, and on the crowd 
That touch, which none who feels forgets, 

bestowed ; 
And whilst the sun returned the steadfast gaze 
Of the great Image as o'er Heaven it glode. 
That rite had place ; it ceased when sunset's blaze 
Burned o'er the isles; all stood in joy and deep 

amaze ; 

When in the silence of all spirits there 
Laone's voice was felt, and through the air 
Her thrilling gestures spoke, most eloquently fair. 

L 

" Calm art thou as yon sunset ! swift and strong 
As new-fledged Eagles, beautiful and young. 
That float among the blinding beams of morning; 
And underneath thy feet writhe Faith, and Folly, 
Custom, and Hell, and mortal Melancholy — 
Hark ! the Earth starts to hear the mighty warning 
Of thy voice sublime and holy ; 
Its free spirits here assembled, 
See thee, feel thee, know thee now : 
To thy voice their hearts have trembled, 
Like ten thousand clouds which flow 
With one wide wind as it flies ! 
Wisdom ! thy irresistible cliildren rise 
To hail thee, and the elements they chain 
And their own will to swell the glory of thy train. 

2. 
" Spirit vast and deep as Night and Heaven ! 
Mother and soul of all to which is given 
The light of life, the loveliness of being, 
Lo ! thou dost reascend the human heart. 
Thy throne of power, almighty as thou wert. 
In dreams of Poets old grown pale by seeuig 
The shade of thee : — now, millions start 
To feel thy lightnings through them burning : 
Nature, or God, or Love, or Pleasure, 
Or Sympathy, the sad tears turning 
To mutual smiles, a drainlcss treasure, 
Descends amidst us ; — Scorn and Hate, 
Revenge and Selfishness, are desolate 
A hundred nations swear that there shall be 
Pity and Peace and Love, among the good and fi^ee ! 

3. 

"Eldest of things, divine EquaUty! 
Wisdom and Love are but the slaves of thee. 
The Angels of thy sway, who pour around thee 
Treasures from all the cells of human thought, 



92 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



And from the Stars, and from the Ocean brought, 
And the last Hving heart whose beatings bound thee ! 
The powerful and the wise had sought 
Thy coming ; thou in light descending 
O'er the wide land which is thine own. 
Like the spring whose breath is blending 
All blasts of fragrance into one, 
Comest upon the paths of men ! 
Earth bares her general bosom to thy ken 
And all her children here in glory meet 
To feed upon thy smiles, and clasp thy sacred feet. 

4. 
" My brethren, we are free ! the plains and moun- 
tains, 
The gray sea-shore, the forests, and the fountains. 
Are haunts of happiest dwellers ; man and woman. 
Their common bondage burst, may freely borrow 
From lawless love a solace for their sorrow ! 
For oft we still must weep, since we are human. 
A stormy night's serenest morrow, 
Whose showers are pity's gentle tears, 
Whose clouds are smiles of those that die 
Like infants, without hopes or fears, 
And whose beams are joys that lie, 
In blended hearts, now holds dominion ; 
The dawn of mind, which, upwards on a pinion 
Borne, swift as sunrise, far illumines space, 
And clasps this baiTen world in its own bright 
embrace ! 

5. 

« My brethren, we are free ! the fruits are glowing 
Beneath the stars, and the night-winds are flowing 
O'er the ripe corn, the birds and beasts are dream- 
Never again may blood of bird or beast [ing — ■ 
Stain with its venomous stream a human feast, 
To the pure skies in accusation steaming; 
Avenging poisons shall have ceased 
To feed disease and fear and madness, 
The dwellers of the earth and air 
Shall throng around our steps in gladness, 
Seeking their food or refuge there — 
Our toil from thought all glorious forms shall cull, 
To make this earth, our home, more beautiful, 
And Science, and her sister Poesy, 
Shall clothe in light the fields and cities of the free ! 

6. 

" Victory, Victory to the prostrate nations ! 
Bear witness. Night, and ye, mute Constellations, 
Who gaze on us fi-om your crystalline cars ! 
Thoughts have gone forth whose powers can sleep 

no more ! 
Victory ! Victory ! Earth's remotest shore. 
Regions which groan beneath the Antarctic stars, 
The green lands cradled in the roar 
Of western waves, and wildernesses 
Peopled and vast, which skirt the oceans 
Where morning dyes her golden tresses, 
Shall soon partake our high emotions : 
Kings shall turn pale ! Almighty Fear, 
The Fiend-God, when our charmed name he hear, 
Shall fade like shadow from his thousand fanes. 
While Truth with Joy enthroned o'er his lost 
empire reigns !" 



Ere she had ceased, the mists of night entwining 
Their dim woof, floated o'er the infinite throng ; 
She like a spirit through the darkness shining, 
In tones whose sweetness silence did prolong, 
As if to lingering winds they did belong, 
Poured forth her inmost soul : a passionate speech 
With wild and thrilling pauses woven among, 
Which whoso heard, was mute, for it could teach 
To rapture like her own all listening hearts to reach. 

iiii. 

Her voice was as a mountain stream which sweeps 
The withered leaves of autumn to the lake, 
And in some deep and narrow bay then sleeps 
In the shadow of the shores ; as dead leaves wake 
Under the wave, in flowers and herbs which make 
Those green depths beautiful when slues are blue. 
The multitude so moveless did partake 
Such living change, and kindling murmurs flew 
As o'er that speechless calm delight and wonder 
grew. 

LIV. 

Over the plain the throngs were scattered then 
In groups around the fires, which from the sea 
Even to the gorge of the first mountain glen 
Blazed wide and far : the banquet of the free 
Was spread beneath many a dark cypress tree, 
Beneath whose spires, which swayed in the red 
Reclining as they ate, of Liberty, [hght 

And Hope, and Justice, and Laone's name. 
Earth's children did a woof of happy converse frame. 

LV. 

Their feast was such as Earth, the general mother. 
Pours from her fairest bosom, when she smiles 
In the embrace of Autumn ; — to each other 
As when some parent fondly reconciles 
Her warring children, she their wrath beguiles 
With her own sustenance ; they relenting weep : 
Such was this festival, which fi-om their isles. 
And continents, and winds, and oceans deep. 
All shapes might throng to share, that fly, or walk, 
or creep. 

LVI. 

Might share in peace and innocence, for gore 
Or poison none this festal did pollute. 
But piled on high, an overflowing store 
Of pomegranates, and citrons, fairest fruit, 
Melons and dates, and figs, and many a root 
Sweet and sustaining, and bright grapes ere yet 
Accursed fire their mild juice could transmute 
Into a mortal bane, and brown corn set 
In baskets ; with pure streams their thirsting lips 
they wet. 

I.VIT. 

Laone had descended from the shrine, 
And every deepest look and holiest mind 
Fed on her form, though now those tones divine 
Were silent as she past ; she did unwind 
Her veil, as with the crowds of her own kind 
She mixed ; some impulse made my heart refrain 
From seeking her that night, so I reclined 
Amidst a group, where on the utmost plain 
A festal watch-fire burned beside the dusky main. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



93 



LViir. 

And joyous was our feast ; pathetic talk, 
And wit, and harmony of choral strains, 
While far Orion o'er the waves did walk 
That flow among the isles, held us in chains 
Of sweet captivity, which none disdains 
Who feels : but, when his zone gi-ew dim in mist 
Which clothes the Ocean's bosom, o'er the plains 
The multitudes went homeward, to their rest, 
W' hich that delightful day with its own shadow blest. 

CANTO VL 
I. 

Beside the dimness of the glimmering sea, 
Weaving swift language from impassioned themes. 
With that dear friend I lingered, who to me 
So late had been restored, beneath the gleams 
Of the silver stars : and ever in soft dreams 
Of future love and peace sweet converse lapt 
Our willing fancies, till the pallid beams 
Of the last watch-fire fell, and darkness wrapt 

The vfaves, and each bright chain of floating fire 
was snapt. 

II. 
And till we came even to the City's wall 
And the great gate, then, none knew whence or 
Disquiet on the multitudes did fall ; [why, 

And first, one pale and breathless past us by. 
And stared, and spoke not ; then with piercing cry 
A troop of wild-eyed women, by their shrieks 
Of their own terror driven, — tumultuously 
Hither and thither hurrying with pale cheeks, 

Each one from fear unknown a sudden refuge 
seeks — • 

III. 
Then, rallying cries of treason and of danger 
Resounded : and — ■" They come ! to arms ! to arms ! 
The Tyrant is amongst us, and the stranger 
Comes to enslave us in his name ! to arms!" 
In vain : for Panic, the pale fiend who charms 
Strength to forswear her right, those millions swept 
Like waves before the tempest — these alarms 
Came to me, as to know their cause I leapt [wept! 

On the gate's turret, and in rage and grief and scorn I 

IV. 

For to the North I saw the town on fire, 
And its red light made morning pallid now, 
Which burst over wide Asia. — Louder, higher, 
The yells of victory and the screams of wo 
I heard approach, and saw the throng below [falls 
Stream through the gates like foam- wrought water- 
Fed from a thousand storms — the fearful glow 
Of bombs flares overhead — at intervals 
The red artillery's bolt mangling among them falls. 

T. 

And now the horsemen come — and all was done 
Swifter than I have spoken — I beheld 
Their red swords flash in the unrisen sun. 
I rushed among the rout to have repelled 
That miserable flight — one moment quelled 
By voice, and looks, and eloquent despair, 
As if reproach from their own hearts withheld 
Their steps, they stood ; but soon came pouring 
there [bear. 

New multitudes, and did those ralUed bands o'er- 



I strove, as drifted on some cataract 
By irresistible streams, some wretch might strive 
Who hears its fatal roar : the files compact 
Whelmed me, and from the gate availed to drive 
With quickening impulse, as each bolt did rive 
Their ranks with bloodier chasm : into the plain 
Disgorged at length the dead and the alive, 
In one dread mass, were parted, and the stain 
Of blood from mortal steel fell o'er the fields like 



For now the despot's bloodhounds with their prey 
Unarmed and unaware, were gorging deep 
Their gluttony of death ; the loose array 
Of horsemen o'er the wide fields murdering sweep, 
And with loud laughter for their tyrant reap 
A harvest sown with other hopes ; the while, 
Far overhead, ships from Propontis keep 
A killing rain of fire : — when the waves smile 
As sudden earthquakes light many a volcano isle. 

VIII. 

Thus sudden, unexpected feast was spread 
For the carrion fowls of heaven. — I saw the sight — 
I moved — I lived — as o'er the heaps of dead. 
Whose stony eyes glared in the morning light, 
I trod ; to me there came no thought of flight, 
But with loud cries of scorn which whoso heard 
That dreaded death, felt in his veins the might 
Of vutuous shame return, the crowd I stirred. 
And desperation's hope in many hearts recurred. 

IX. 

A band of brothers gathering round me, made, 
Although unarmed, a steadfast front, and still 
Retreating, with stern looks beneath the shade 
Of gathered eyebrows, did the victors fill 
With doubt even in success ; deliberate will 
Inspired our growing troop ; not overthrown 
It gained the shelter of a grassy hill, 
And ever still our comrades were hewn down, 
And their defenceless Umbs beneath our footsteps 
strown. 

X. 

Immovably we stood — in joy I found. 
Beside me then, firm as a giant pine 
Among the mountain vapours driven around. 
The old man whom I loved — his eyes divine 
With a mild look of courage answered mine, 
And my young friend was near, and ardently 
His hand grasped mine a moment — now the line 
Of war extended, to our rallying cry. 
As myriads flocked in love and brotherhood to die. 

XI. 

For ever while the sun was climbing Heaven 
The horsemen hewed our unarmed myriads down 
Safely, though when by thirst of carnage driven 
Too near, those slaves were swiftly overthrown 
By hundreds leaping on them : flesh and bone 
Soon made our ghastly ramparts ; then the shaft 
Of the artillery from the sea was thrown 
More fast and fiery, and the conquerors laughed 
In pride to hear the wind our screams of torment 
waft. 



94 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



For on one side alone the hill gave shelter, 
So vast that phalanx of unconquered men, 
And there the living in their blood did welter 
Of the dead and dying, which, in that green glen, 
Like stifled torrents, made a plashy fen 
Under the feet — thus was the butcheiy waged 
While the sun clomb Heaven's eastern steep — but 
It 'gan to sink, a fiercer combat raged, [when 

For in more doubtful strife the armies were engaged. 
xni. 
Within a cave upon the hill were found 
A bundle of rude pikes, the instrument 
Of those who war but on their native ground 
For natural rights : a shout of joyance sent 
Even from our hearts the wide air pierced and 
As those few arms the bravest and the best [rent. 
Seized; and each sixth, thus armed, did now present 
A line which covered and sustained the rest, 

A confident phalanx, which the foes on every side 
invest. 

XIV. 

That onset turned the foes to flight almost ; 
But soon they saw their present strength, and knew 
That coming night would to our resolute host 
Bring \ictory ; so dismounting close they drew 
Their glittering files, and then the combat grew 
Unequal but most homble ; — and ever 
Our myriads, whom the swift bolt overthrew. 
Or the red sword, failed like a mountain river 
Which rushes forth in foam to sink in sands for 
ever. 

XV. 

Sorrow and shame, to see with their own kind 
Our human brethren mix, like beasts of blood 
To mutual ruin armed by one behind, [good 

Who sits and scoffs ! — That iriend so mild and 
Who lilce its shadow near my youth had stood, 
Was stabbed ! — my old preserver's hoary hair, 
With the flesh clinging to its roots, was strewed 
Under my feet ! I lost all sense or care, 
And like the rest I grew desperate and unaware. 

XVI. 

The battle became ghastlier, in the midst 
I paused, and saw, how ugly and how fell, 
O Hate ! thou art, even when thy life thou shcdd'st 
For love. The ground in many a little dell 
Was broken, up and down whose steps befell 
Alternate victory and defeat, and there 
The combatants with rage most horrible 
Strove, and their eyes started with cracking stare. 
And impotent their tongues they lolled into the air, 

XVII. 

Flaccid and foamy, like a mad dog's hanging; 
Want, and Moon-madness, and the Pest's swift 

bane. [twanging — 

When its shafts smite — while yet its bow is 
Have each their mark and sign — some ghastly 

stain ; 
And this was thine, O War ! of hate and pain 
Thou loathed slave. I saw all shapes of death. 
And minister'd to many, o'er the plain 
While carnage in the sunbeam's warmth did seethe, 
Till twilight o'er the east wove her serenest wreath. 



XVIII. 

The few who yet. survived, resolute and Ann, 
Around me fought. At the decline of day. 
Winding above the mountain's snowy term, 
New banners shone : they quivered in the ray 
Of the sun's unseen orb — ere night the array 
Of fresh troops hemmed us in — of those brave 
I soon survived alone — and now I lay [bands 
Vanquished and faint, the grasp of bloody hands 
I felt, and saw on high the glare of falling brands ; 

XTX. 

W^hen on my foes a sudden terror came, 
And they fled, scattering.— Lo ! with reinless 
A black Tartarian horse of giant frame [speed 
Comes ti-ampling o'er the dead ; the living bleed 
Beneath the hoofs of that tremendous steed. 
On which, like to an angel, robed in white. 
Sate one waving a sword ; the hosts recede 
And fly, as through their ranks, with awful might. 
Sweeps in the shadow of eve that Phantom swift 
and bright ; 

XX. 

And its path made a solitude. — I rose 
And marked its coming ; it relaxed its course 
As it approached me, and the wind that flows [force 
Through night, bore accents to mine ear whose 
Might create smiles in death. — The Tartar horse 
Paused, and I saw the shape its might which 
swayed, [source 

And heard her musical pants, like the sweet 
Of waters in the desert, as she said, 
« Mount with me, Laon, now" — I rapidly obeyed. 

XXI. 

Then « Away ! away !" she cried, and stretched her 
As 'twere a scourge ever the courser's head, [sword 
And lightly shook the reins. — We spake no word, 
But like the vapour of the tempest fled 
Over the plain ; her dark hair was dispread. 
Like the pine's locks upon the lingering blast ; 
Over mine eyes its shadowy strings it spread 
Fitfully, and the hills and streams fled fast. 
As o'er their glimmering forms the steed's broad 
shadow past; 

XXII. 

And his hoofs ground the rocks to fire and dust, 
His strong sides made the torrents rise in spray, 
And turbulence, as if a whirlwind's gust 
Surrounded us ; — and still away ! away ! 
Through the desert night we sped, while she alway 
Gazed on a mountain which we neared, whose crest 
Crowned with a marble ruin, in the ray 
Of the obscure stars gleamed ; — its rugged breast 
The steed strained up, and then his impulse did 
arrest. 

XXIII. 

A rocky hill which overhung the Ocean . — • 
From that lone ruin, when the steed that panted 
Paused, might be heard the murmur of the motion 
Of waters, as in spots for ever haunted 
By the choicest winds of Heaven, which are en- 
To music by tlie wand of Sohtude, [chanted 
That wizard wild, and the far tents implanted 
Upon the plain, be seen by those who stood 
Thence marking the dark shore of Ocean's curved 
flood. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



95 



XXIT. 

One moment these were heard and seen — another 
Past ; and the two who stood beneath that night, 
Each only heard, or saw, or felt, the other ; 
As from the lofty steed she did alight, 
Cythna (for, from the eyes whose deepest light 
Of love and sadness made my lips feel pale 
With influence strange of mournfullest delight, 
My own sweet Cythna looked,) with joy did quail, 
And felt her strength in tears of Iiuman weakness 
fail. 

XXT. 

And for a space in my embrace she rested, 
Her head on my unquiet heart reposing. 
While my faint arms her languid frame invested: 
At length she looked on me, and half unclosing 
Her tremulous lips, said : " Friend, thy bands were 
The battle, as I stood before the King [losing 
In bonds. — I burst them then, and swiftly choosing 
The time, did seize a Tartar's sword, and spring 
Upon his horse, and svrift as on the whirlwind's 
wing, 

XXVI. 

" Have thou and I been borne beyond pursuer, 
And we are here." — Then, turning to the steed. 
She pressed the white moon on his front with pure 
And rose-like lips, and many a fi-agrant weed 
From the green ruin plucked, that he might feed; — 
But I to a stone seat that Maiden led. 
And kissing her fair eyes, said, "Thou hast need 
Of rest," and I heaped up the courser's bed 
In a gi-een mossy nook, with mountain flowers 
dispread. 

XXTII. 

Within that ruin, where a shattered portal 
Looks to the eastern stars, abandoned now 
By man, to the home of things immortal, 
Memories, like awful ghosts which come and go. 
And must inherit all he builds below. 
When he is gone, a hall stood ; o'er whose roof 
Fair clinging weeds with ivy pale did grow, 
Clasping its gray rents with a verdurous woof, 
A hanging doine of leaves, a canopy moon-proof. 

XXVIII. 

The autumnal winds, as if spell-bound, had made 
A natural couch of leaves in that recess. 
Which seasons none disturbed, but in the shade 
Of flowering parasites, did spring love to dress 
With their sweet blooms the wintry loneliness 
Of those dead leaves, shedding their stars whene'er 
The wandering vdnd her nurslings might caress ; 
Whose intertwining fingers ever tliere. 
Made music wild and soil that filled the listening 
air. 

XXIX. 

We know not where we go, or what sweet dream 
May pilot us thro'igh caverns strange and fair 
Of far and pathless passion, while the stream 
Of life our bark doth on its whirlpools bear. 
Spreading swift wings as sails to the dim air ; 
Nor shsuld we seek to know, so the devotion 
Of love and gentle thoughts be heard still there 
Louder and louder fi-om the utmost Ocean 
Of universal hfe, attuning its commotion. 



To the pure all things arc pure ! Oblivion wrapt 
Our spirits, and the fearful overthrow 
Of public hope was from our being snapt. 
Though linked years had bound it there ; for now 
A power, a thirst, a knowledge, which below 
All thoughts, like hght beyond the atmosphere, 
Clothing its clouds with grace, doth ever flow, 
Came on us, as we sate in silence there. 
Beneath the golden stars of the clear azui'e air. 



In silence which doth follow talk that causes 
The baffled heart to speak with sighs and tears. 
When wildering passion swalloweth up the pauses 
Of inexpressive speech : — the youthful years 
Which we together past, their hopes and fears. 
The blood itself which ran within our frames, 
That likeness of the features which endears 
The thoughts expressed by them, our very names, 
And all the winged hours which speechless memory 
claims, 

XXXII. 

Had found a voice : — and ere that voice did pass, 
The night grew damp and dim, and through a rent 
Of the ruin where we sate, fi-om the morass, 
A wandering Meteor, bj'^ some wild wind sent, 
Hung high in the green dome, to which it lent 
A faint and pallid lustre ; while the song 
Of blasts, in which its blue hair quivering bent. 
Strewed strangest sounds the moving leaves 
among ; 
A wondrous light, the sound as of a spuit's tongue. 

XXXIII. 

The Meteor showed the leaves on which we sate. 
And Cythna's glowing arms, and the thick ties 
Of her soft hair, which bent with gathered weight 
My neck near hers, her dark and deepening eyes, 
Which, as twin phantoms of one star that lies 
O'er a dim well, move, though the star reposes, 
Swam in our mute and liquid ecstacies. 
Her marble brow, and eager lips, like roses. 
With their own fragrance pale, which spring but 
half uncloses. 

XXXIV. 

The meteor to its far morass returned : 
The beating of our veins one interval 
Made still ; and then I felt the blood that burned 
Within her fi-ame, mingle with mine, and fall 
Around my heart like fire ; and over all 
A mist was spread, the sickness of a deep 
And speechless swoon of joy, as might befall 
Two disunited spirits when they leap 
In union fiom this earth's obscure and fading sleep. 

XXXV. 

Was it one moment that confounded thus 
All thought, all sense, all fceUng, into one 
Unutterable power, which sliielded us 
Even from our own cold looks, when we had gone 
Into a wide and wild oblivion 
Of tumult and of tenderness ? or now 
Had ages, such as make the moon and sun. 
The seasons and manldnd, their changes know, 
Left fear and time unfelt by us alone below 1 



96 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XXXTI. 

I know not. What are kisses whose fire clasps 
The failing heart in languishment, or Imib 
Twined within limb 1 or the quick dying gasps 
Of the life meeting, when the faint eyes swim 
Through tears of a wide mist, boundless and dim, 
In one caress 1 What is the strong control 
Which leads the heart that dizzy steep to climb, 
Where far over the world those vapours roll, 

Wliich blend two restless frames in one reposing 
soul t 

xxxvir. 
It is the shadow which doth float unseen, 
But not unfelt, o'er blind mortaUty, 
Whose divine darkness fled not from that green 
And lone recess, where lapt in peace did he 
Our Unked frames, till, from the changing sky, 
That night and still another day had fled ; 
And then I saw and felt. The moon was high. 
And clouds, as of a coming stonn, were spread 

Under its orb, — loud windswere gathering overhead. 

XXXYIII. 

Cythna's sweet lips seemed lurid in the moon, 
Her fairest hmbs with the night wind were chill, 
And her dark tresses were all loosely strewn 
O'er her pale bosom : — all within was still, 
And the sweet peace of joy did almost fill 
The depth of her unfathomable look ; — 
And we sate calmly, though that rocky hill, 
The waves contending in its caverns strook. 
For they forelmew the storm, and the gray ruin 
shook. 

XXXIX. 

There we unheeding sate, in the communion 
Of interchanged vows, which, with a rite 
Of faith most sweet and sacred, stamped our union.- 
Few were the hving hearts which could unite 
Like ours, or celebrate a bridal night 
With such close sympathies, for they had sprung 
From Unked youth, and from the gentle might 
Of earUest love, delayed and cherished long, 
Which common hopes and fears made, like a 
tempest, strong. 

XI.. 

And such is Nature's law di\'ine, that those 
Who grow together cannot choose but love. 
If faith or custom do not interpose. 
Or common slavery mar what else might move 
All gentlest thoughts ; as in the sacred grove 
Which shades the springs of ^^thiopian Nile, 
That living tree, which, if the arrowy dove 
Strike with her shadow, shrinks in fear awhile. 
But its own kindred leaves clasps, while the sun- 
beams smile ; 

XLI. 

And clings to them, when darkness may dissever 
The close caresses of all duller plants 
Which bloom on the wide earth — thus we for ever 
Were linked, for love had nurst us in the haunts 
Where knowledge from its secret source enchants 
Young hearts with the fresh music of its springing. 
Ere yet its gathered flood feeds human wants. 
As the great Nile feeds Egypt ; ever flinging 
Light on the woven boughs which o'er its waves 
are swinging. 



The tones of Cythna's voice like echoes were 
Of those far murmuring streams ; they rose and fell. 
Mixed with mine own in the tempestuous air, — 
And so we sate, until our talk befell 
Of the late ruin, swift and horrible. 
And how those seeds of hope might yet be sown. 
Whose fruit is evil's mortal poison : well 
For us, this ruin made a watch-tower lone. 
But Cythna's eyes looked faint, and now two days 
were gone 

XIIII. 

Since she had food : — therefore I did awaken 
The Tartar steed, who, from his ebon mane. 
Soon as the clinging slumbers he had shaken, 
Bent his thin head to seek the brazen rein. 
Following me obediently ; with pain 
Of heart, so deep and dread, that one caress. 
When lips and heart refuse to part again. 
Till they have told their fill, could scarce express 
The anguish of her mute and fearful tenderness, 

XLIT. 

Cythna beheld me part, as I bestrode 
That willmg steed — the tempest and the night. 
Which gave my path its safety as I rode 
Down the ravine of rocks, did soon unite 
The darkness and the tumult of their might 
Borne on all winds. — Far through the streaming 

rain 
Floating at intervals the garments white 
Of Cythna gleamed, and her voice once again 
Came to me on the gust, and soon I reached the plain. 

XLV. 

I dreaded not the tempest, nor did he 
Who bore me, but his eyeballs wide and red 
Turned on the lightning's cleft exultingly ; 
And when the earth beneath his tameless tread. 
Shook with the sullen thunder, he would spread 
His nostrils to the blast, and joyously- 
Mock the fierce peal with neighings; — thus we sped 
O'er the lit plain, and soon I could descry 
Where Death and Fire had gorged the spoil of 
victory. 

XITI. 

There was a desolate village in a wood. 
Whose bloom-inwovcn leaves now scattering fed 
The hungry storm ; it was a place of blood, 
A heap of hearthless walls ; — the flames were dead 
Within those dwellings now, — the life had fled 
From all those corpses now, — ^but the wide sky 
Flooded with lightning was ribbed overhead 
By the black rafters, and around did lie 
Women, and babes, and men, slaughtered con- 
fusedly. 

XIVII. 

Beside the fountain in the market-place 
Dismounting, I beheld those corpses stare 
With horny eyes upon each other's face. 
And on the earth and on the vacant air. 
And upon me, close to the waters where 
I stooped to slake my thirst ; — I shrank to taste. 
For the salt bitterness of blood was there ! 
But tied the steed beside, and sought in haste 
If any yet survived amid that ghastly waste. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



97 



XLTIir. 

No living thing was there beside one woman, 
Whom I found wandering in the streets, and she 
Was withered from a hkeness of aught human 
Into a fiend, by some strange misery : 
Soon as she heard my steps she leaped on me, 
And glued her burning lips to mine, and laughed 
With a loud, long, and frantic laugh of glee, 
And cried, " Now, Mortal, thou hast deeply quaffed 
The Plague's blue kisses — soon millions shall 
pledge the di-aught ! 

XLIX. 

" My name is Pestilence — this bosom dry 
Once fed two babes — a sister and a brother — 
When I came home, one in the blood did he 
Of three death-wounds — the flames had ate the 
Since then I have no longer been a mother, [other ! 
But I am Pestilence; — ^hither and thither 
I flit about, that I may slay and smother ; — 
All lips which I have kissed must surely wither. 
But Death's — if thou art he, we'll go to work 
together ! 

X. 

" Wliat seekest thou here ? the moonlight comes in 
The dew is rising dankly from the dell ; [flashes, — 
'Twill moisten her ! and thou shalt see the gashes 
In my sweet boy — now full of worms — but tell 
First what thou seek'st." — " I seek for food." — 

" 'Tis well. 
Thou shalt have food ; Famine, my paramour, 
Waits for us at the feast — cruel and fell 
Is Famine, but he drives not from his door 

Those whom these lips have kissed, alone. No 
more, no more !" 
11. 
As thus she spake, she grasped me with the strength 
Of madness, and by many a ruined hearth 
She led, and over many a corpse : — at length 
We came to a lone hut, where on the earth 
Which made its floor, she in her ghastly mirth 
Gathering from all those homes now desolate. 
Had piled three heaps of loaves, making a dearth 
Among the dead — round which she set in state 

A ring of cold, stifl;' babes ; silent and stark they sate. 

LII. 

She leaped upon a pile, and lifted high 
Her mad looks to the lightning, and cried : « Eat ! 
Share the great feast — ^to-morrow we must die !" 
And then she spurned the loaves with her pale feet. 
Towards her bloodless guests ; — that sight to meet, 
Mine eyes and my heart ached, and but that she 
Who loved me, did with absent looks defeat 
Despair, I might have raved in sympathy ; 

But now I took the food that woman oilered me ; 
Liir. 
And vainly having with her madness striven 
If I might win her to return with me. 
Departed. In the eastern beams of Heaven 
The Ughtning now grew pallid — rapidly, 
As by the shore of the tempestuous sea 
The dark steed bore me, and the mountain gray 
Soon echoed to liis hoofs, and I could see 
Cythna among the rocks, where she alway 

Had sate, with anxious eyes fixed on the lingering 
day. 



And joy was ours to meet : she was most pale, 
Famished, and wet and weary, so I cast 
My arms around her, lest her steps should fail 
As to our home we went, and thus embraced, 
Her full heart seemed a deeper joy to taste 
Than e'er the prosperous know ; the steed behind 
Trod peacefully along the mountain waste : 
We reached our home ere morning could unbind 

Night's latest veil, and on our bridal couch recUned. 
iv. 
Her chilled heart having cherished in my bosom, 
And sweetest kisses past, we two did share 
Our peaceful meal : — as an autumnal blossom, 
Wliich spreads its shrunk leaves in the sunny air. 
After cold showers, like rainbows woven there, 
Thus in her lips and cheeks the vital spirit 
Mantled, and in her eyes, an atmosphere [it, 

Of health, and hope ; and sorrow languished near 

And fear, and all that dark despondence doth inherit. 

CANTO vn. 

I. 

So we sate joyous as the morning ray 
Which fed upon the wrecks of night and storm 
Now lingering on the winds ; light airs did play 
Among the dewy weeds, the sun was warm, 
And we sate linked in the inwoven charm 
Of converse and caresses sweet and deep, 
Speechless caresses, talk that might disarm 
Time, though he wield the darts of death and sleep, 

And those thrice mortal barbs in his own poison 
steep. 

II. 
I told her of my sufferings and my madness, 
And how, awakened from that dreamy mood 
By Liberty's uprise, the strength of gladness 
Came to my spirit in my solitude ; 
And all that now I was, while tears pursued 
Each other down her fair and Kstening cheek 
Fast as the thoughts which fed them, like a flood 
From sunbright dales ; and when I ceased to speak, 

Her accents soft and sweet the pausing air did wake. 
III. 
She told me a strange tale of strange endurance, 
Like broken memories of many a heart 
Woven into one ; to which no firm assurance, 
So wild were they, could her own faith impart 
She said that not a tear did dare to start [firm 
From the swoln brain, and that her thoughts were 
When from all mortal hope she did depart. 
Borne by those slaves across the Ocean's term, 

And that she reached the port without one fear 
infirm. 

IV. 

One was she among many there, the thralls 
Of the cold tyrant's cruel lust : and they 
Laughed mournfully in those polluted halls; 
But she was calm and sad, musing alway 
On loftiest enterprise, till on a day 
The tyrant heard her singing to her lute 
A wild and sad, and spirit-thrilling lay, 
Like vdnds that die in wastes — one moment mute 
The evil thoughts it made, which did his breast 
pollute. 



98 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM, 



Even when he saw her wondrous lovehness, 
One moment to great Nature's sacred power 
He bent and was no longer passionless ; 
But when he bade her to his secret bower 
Be borne a loveless victim, and she tore 
Her locks in agony, and her words of flame 
And mightier looks availed not ; then he bore 
Again his load of slavei-y, and became 
A king, a heartless beast, a pageant and a name. 

TI. 

She told me what a loathsome agony 
Is that when selfishness mocks love's delight, 
Foul as in dreams most fearful imagery 
To dally with the mowing dead — that night 
All torture, fear, or horror, made seem light 
Which the soul dreams or knows, and when the 
Shone on her awful frenzy, from the sight [day 
Where like a Spirit in fleshy chains she lay 
StruggUng, aghast and pale the tyrant fled away. 

VII. 

Her madness was a beam of light, a power 
Which dawned through the rent soul ; and words 

it gave, 
Gestures and looks, such as in whirlwinds bore 
Which might not be withstood, whence none could 

save [wave 

All who approached their sphere, like some calm 
Vexed into whirlpools by the chasms beneath ; 
And sympathy made each attendant slave 
Fearless and free, and they began to breathe 
Deep curses, like the voice of flames far underneath. 

VIII. 

The King felt pale upon his noonday throne ; 
At night two slaves he to her chamber sent, 
One was a green and wrinkled eunuch, grown 
From human shape into an instrument 
Of all things ill — distorted, bowed and bent. 
The other was a wretch from infancy 
Made dumb by poison ; who nought knew or meant 
But to obey : from the fire-isles came he, 
A diver lean and strong, of Oman's coral sea. 

IX. 

They bore her to a bark, and the swift; stroke 
Of silent rowers clove the blue moonlight seas. 
Until upon their path the morning broke ; 
They anchored then, where, be there calm or 
The gloomiest of the drear Symplegades [breeze. 
Shakes with the sleepless surge ; — the JE thiop there 
Wound his long arms around her, and with knees 
Like iron clasped her feet, and plunged with her 
Among the closing waves out of the boundless air. 

X. 

« Swift as an eagle stooping fi."om the plain 
Of morning light, into some shadowy wood. 
He plunged through the green silence of the main. 
Through many a cavern which the eternal flood 
Had scooped, as dark lairs for its monster brood ; 
And among mighty shapes which fled in wonder. 
And among mightier shadows which pursued 
His heels, he wound : until the dark rocks under 
He touched a golden chain — a sound arose like 
thunder. 



" A stunning clang of massive bolts redoubling 
Beneath the deep — a burst of waters driven 
As firom the roots of the sea, raging and bubbling; 
And in that roof of crags a space was riven 
Through which there shone the emerald beams of 

heaven, 
Shot through the lines of many waves inwoven, 
Like sunlight through acacia woods at even. 
Through which, his way the diver having cloven, 
Past like a spark sent up out of a biurning oven. 

XII. 

" And then," she said, " he laid me in a cave 
Above the waters, by that chasm of sea, 
A fountain round and vast, in which the wave 
Imprisoned, boiled and leaped perpetually, 
Down which, one moment restmg, he did flee. 
Winning the adverse depth : that spacious cell 
Like an upaitliric temple wide and high. 
Whose aery dome is inaccessible. 
Was pierced with one round clelt through which 
the sunbeams fell. 

XIII. 

" Below, the fountain's brink was richly paven 
With the deep's wealth, coral, and pearl, and sand 
Like spangling gold, and purple shells engraven 
With mystic legends by no mortal hand, [mand, 
Left there, when, thronging to the moon's com- 
The gathering waves rent the Hesperian gate 
Of mountains, and on such bright floor did stand 
Columns, and shapes like statues, and the state 
Of Idnglcss thrones, which Earth did in her heart 
create. 

XIV. 

"The fiend of madness which had made its prey 
Of my poor heart, was lulled to sleep awhile : 
There was an interval of many a day, 
And a sea-eagle brought me food the while, 
Whose nest was built in that unti^odden isle, 
And who, to be the jailer, had been taught. 
Of that strange dungeon : as a fiiend whose smile 
Like light and rest at morn and even is sought. 
That wild bird was to me, till madness misery 
brought. 

XV. 

" The misery of a madness slow and creeping, 
Wliich made the earth seem fire, the sea seem air, 
And the white clouds of noon which oft were sleep- 
In the blue heaven so beautiful and fair, [ing 
Like hosts of ghastly shadows hovering there ; 
And the sea-eagle looked a fiend who bore 
Thy mangled limbs for food ! — Thus all things were 
Transformed into the agony which I wore. 
Even as a poisoned robe around my bosom's core. 

XVI. 

" Again I knew the day and night fast fleeing. 
The eagle and the fountain and the air; 
Another frenzy came — ^there seemed a being 
Within me — a strange load my heart did bear, 
As if some hvdng thing had made its lair 
Even in the fountains of my life : — a long 
And wondrous vision wrought from my despair, 
Then grew, like sweet reality among 
Dim visionary woes, an unreposing throng. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



99 



" Methought I was about to be a mother — 
IVIonth after month went by, and still I dreamed 
That we should soon be all to one another, 
I and my child ; and still new pulses seemed 
To beat beside my heart, and still I deemed 
There was a babe within — and when the rain 
Of winter through the rifted cavern streamed, 
Methought, after a lapse of lingering pain, 
I saw that lovely shape, which near my heart had 
labi. 

■KTIII. 

« It was a babe, beautiful from its birth, — • 
It was like thee, dear love ! its eyes were thine, 
Its brow, its lips, and so upon the earth 
It laid its fingers, as now rest on mine 
Thine own, beloved ! — 'hvas a dream divine ; 
Even to remember how it fled, how swift. 
How utterly, might make the heart repine, — • 
Though 'twas a dream." — Then Cythna did uplift 
Her looks on mine, as if some doubt she sought to 
shift: 

XIX. 

A doubt which would not flee, a tenderness 
Of questioning grief, a source of thronging tears ; 
Which, having past, as one whom sobs oppress, 
She spoke : " Yes, in the wilderness of years 
Her memory aye like a green home appears. 
She sucked her fill even at this breast, sweet love, 
For many months I had no mortal fears ; 
Methought I felt her lips and breath approve, — 
It was a human thing which to my bosom clove. 

XX. 

" I watched the dawn of her first smiles, and soon 
When zenith-stars were trembling on the wave, 
Or when the beams of the invisible moon, 
Or sun, from many a prism within the cave 
Their gem-born shadows to the water gave, 
Her looks would hunt them, and with outspread 
hand, [pave. 

From the swiil Ughts which might that fountain 
She would mark one, and laugh, when that com- 
mand [stand. 
Slighting, it lingered there, and could not under- 

XXI. 

« Methought her looks began to talk with me ; 
And no articulate sounds, but something sweet 
Her lips would frame, — so sweet it could not be. 
That it was meaningless ; her touch would meet 
Mine, and our pulses calmly f5ow and beat 
In response while we slept; and on a day 
When I was happiest in that strange retreat. 
With heaps of golden shells we two did play, — 
Both infants, weavhig wmgs for time's perpetual 
way. 

XXII. 

"Ere night, methought, her waning eyes were 
Weary with joy, and tired with our delight, [grown 
We, on the earth, like sister twins lay down 
On one fair mother's bosom : — from that night 
She fled ; — like those illusions clear and bright, 
Which dwell in lakes, when the red moon on high 
Pause ere it wakens tempest ; — and her flight, 
Though 'twas the death of brainless phantasy, 
Yet smote my lonesome heart more than all misery. 



XXIII. 

" It seemed that in the dreary night, the diver 
Who brought me thither, came again, and bore 
My child away. I savs' the waters quiver, 
When he so swiftly sunk, as once before : 
Then morning came — it shone even as of yore, 
But I was changed — tlie very life was gone 
Out of my heart — I wasted more and more. 
Day after day, and sitting there alone, [moan 
Vexed the inconstant waves with my perpetual 

XXIV. 

" I was no longer mad, and yet methought 
My breasts were swoln and changed : — in every 
vein [thought 

The blood stood still one moment, while that 
Was passing — with a gush of sickening pain 
It ebbed even to its withered springs again : 
When my wan eyes in stern resolve I turned 
From that most strange delusion, which would fain 
Have waked the dream for which my spirit yearned 
With more than human love, — then left it unre- 
turned. 

XXV. 

" So now my reason was restored to me, 
I struggled with that dream, which, like a beast 
Most fierce and beauteous, in my memory 
Had made its lair, and on my heart did feast; 
But all that cave and all its shapes possest [one 
By thoughts which could not fade, renewed each 
Some smile, some look, some gesture which had 
Me heretofore : I, sitting there alone, [blest 

Vexed the inconstant waves with my perpetual 
moan. 

XXVI. 

" Time past, I know not whether months or years, 
For day, nor night, nor change of seasons made 
Its note, but thoughts and unavailing tears : 
And I became at last even as a shade, 
A smoke, a cloud on which the winds have preyed. 
Till it be thin as air; until, one even, 
A Nautilus upon the fountain played, 
Spreading his azure sail where breath of Heaven 
Descended not, among the waves and whirlpools 
driven. 

XXVII. 

« And when the Eagle came, that lovely thing 
Oaring with rosy feet its silver boat. 
Fled near me as for shelter ; on slow wing, 
The Eagle, hovering o'er his prey, did float; 
But when he saw that I with fear did note 
His purpose, proflering my own food to him. 
The eager plumes subsided on his throat — 
He came where that bright child of sea did swim. 
And o'er it cast in peace his shadow broad and dim. 

XXVIII. 

" This wakened me, it gave me human sti-ength ; 
And hope, I know not whence or wherefore, rose. 
But I resumed my ancient powers at length ; 
My spirit felt again like one of those. 
Like tliine, whose fate it is to make the woes 
Of humankmd their prey — what was this cave ! 
Its deep foundation no firm purpose knows 
Imnmtable, resistless, strong to save, [grave. 

Like mind while yet it mocks the all-devouring 



100 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



« And where was Laon 1 might my heart be dead, 
While that far dearer heart could move and be 1 
Or whilst over the earth the pall was spread, 
Which I had sworn to rend 1 I might be free, 
Could I but win that friendly bird to me, 
To bring me ropes ; and long in vain I sought 
By intercourse of mutual imagery 
Of objects, if such aid he could be taught ; 
But fruit, and flowers, and boughs, yet never ropes 
he brought. 

" We live in our own world, and mine was made 
From glorious phantasies of hope departed : 
Aye, we are darkened with their floating shade, 
Or cast a lustre on them — 'time imparted 
Such power to me, I became fcai'less-hearted ; 
My eye and voice grew firm, calm was my mind. 
And piercing, like the morn, now it has darted 
Its lustre on all hidden things, behind [wind. 
Yon dim aaid fading clouds which load the weary 

XXXI. 

« My mind became the book through which I grew 
Wise in all human wisdom, and its cave 
Which like a mine I rifled through and through, 
To me the keeping of its secrets gave — ■ 
One mind, the type of all, the moveless wave 
Whose calm reflects all mo\'ing thhigs that are, 
Necessity, and love, and life, the grave, 
And sympathy, fountains of hope and fear; 
Justice, and truth, and time, and the world's natural 
sphere. 

XXXII. 

" And on the sand would I make signs to range 
These woofs, as they were woven, of my thought ; 
Clear elemental shapes, whose smallest change 
A subtler language within language wrought : 
The key of truths which once were dimly taught 
In old Crotona ; — and sweet melodies 
Of love, in that lone solitude I caught [eyes 

From mine own voice in dream, when thy dear 

Shone through my sleep, and did that utterance 
harmonize. 

xxxni. 
" Thy songs were winds whereon I fled at will, 
As in a winged chariot, o'er the plain 
Of crystal youth ; and thou wert there to fill 
My heart with joy, and there we sate again 
On the gray margin of the glimmering main, 
Happy as then but wiser far, for we 
Smiled on the flowery grave in which were Iain 
Fear, Faith, and Slaveiy ; and mankind was free, 

Equal, and pure, and wise, in wisdom's prophecy. 

XXXIV. 

" For to my will my fancies were as slaves 
To do their sweet and subtle ministries ; 
And oft from that bright fountain's shadowy waves 
They would make human throngs gather and rise 
To combat with my overflowing eyes, 
And voice made deep with passion — thus I grew 
Familiar with the shock and the surprise 
And war of earthly minds, from which I drew 
The power which has been mine to frame their 
thoughts anew. 



XXXV. 

" And thus my prison wjis the populous earth — 
Where I saw — even as misery dreams of morn 
Before the east has given its glory birth — 
Religion's pomp made desolate by the scorn 
Of Wisdom's faintest smile, and thrones uptoni, 
And dwellings of mild people interspersed 
With undivided fields of ripening corn. 
And love made free, — a hope which we have nurst 
Even with our blood and teai^s, — until its glory burst. 

xxxvr. 

« All is not lost ! There is some recompense 
For hope whose fountain can be thus profound. 
Even throned Evil's splendid impotence. 
Girt by its hell of power, the secret sound [bound 
Of hymns to truth and freedom, — the dread 
Of life and death passed fearlessly and well, 
Dungeons wherein the high resolve is found, 
Racks which degraded woman's greatness tell. 
And what may else be good and irresistible. 

xxxvir. 

« Such are the thoughts which, like the fires that 
In storm-encompassed isles, we cherish yet [flare 
In this dark ruin — such were mine even there ; 
As in its sleep some odorous violet. 
While 3'et its leaves with nightly dews are wet. 
Breathes in prophetic dreams of day's uprise. 
Or, as ere Scythian frost in fear has met 
Spring's messengers descending from the sides. 
The buds foreknow their life — this hope must ever 
rise. 

XXXVIII. 

" So years had past, when sudden earthquake rent 
The depth of ocean, and the cavern crackt 
With sound, as if the world's wide continent 
Had fallen in universal ruin wrackt ; 
And through the cleft streamed in one cataract 
The stifling waters : — when I woke, the flood, 
Whose banded waves that crystal cave had sacked. 
Was ebbing round me, and my bright abode 
Before, me yawned^ — a chasm desert, and bare, and 
broad. 

XXXIX. 

« Above me was the sky, beneath the sea : 
I stood upon a point of shattered stone. 
And heard loose rocks rushing tumultuoTisly 
W'ith splash and shock into the deep — anon 
All ceased, and there was silence wide and lone. 
I felt that I was free ! The Ocean-spray 
Quivered beneath my feet, the broad Heaven shone 
Around, and in my hair the winds did play. 
Lingering as they pursued their unimpeded way. 

XL. 

" My spirit moved upon the sea like wind 
Which round some thy my cape will lag and hover. 
Though it can wake the still cloud, and unbind 
The strength of tempest : day was almost over, 
When through the fading light I could discover 
A ship approaching — ^its white sails were fed 
With the north wind — its moving shade did cover 
The twilight deep ; — the mariners in dread 
Cast anchor when they saw new rocks around them 
spread. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



101 



« And when they saw one sitting on a crag, 
They sent a boat to me ; — the sailors rowed 
In awe through many a new and fearful jag 
Of overhanging rock, through which there flowed 
The foam of streams that cannot make abode. 
They came and questioned me, but, when they 

heard 
My voice, they became silent, aiid they stood 
And moved as men in whom new love had stirred 
Deep thoughts ; so to the ship we past without a word. 

CANTO vin. 
I. 

"I SATE beside the steersman then, and, gazing 
Upon the west, cried, < Spread the sails ! behold ! 
The sinking moon is like a watch tower blazing 
Over the mountains yet ; — the City of Gold 
Yon Cape alone does from the sight withhold ; 
The stream is fleet — ^the north breathes steadily 
Beneath the stars ; they ti'emble with the cold ! 
Ye cannot rest upon the dreary sea ; — 
Haste, haste to the warm home of happier destiny !' 

II. 

" The Mariners obeyed— the Captain stood 
Aloof, and, whispering to the Pilot, said, 
' Alas, alas ! I fear we are pursued 
By wicked ghosts : a Phantom of the Dead, 
The night before we sailed, came to my bed 
In iiream, like that !' The Pilot then replied, 
' It cannot be — she is a human Maid — 
Her low voice makes you weep — she is some bride, 
Or daughter of high burth — she can be nought beside.' 

III. 
« We past the islets, borne by wind and stream, 
And as we sailed the Mariners came near 
And thronged around to listen ; — in the gleam 
Of the pale moon I stood, as one whom fear 
May not attaint, and my calm voice did rear : 
' Ye are all human — yon broad moon gives light 
To millions who the selfsame hkeness wear. 
Even while I speak — beneath this veiy night. 
Their thoughts flow on like ours, in sadness or 
delight. 

IV. 

« ' WTiat dream ye 1 Your own hands have built a 
Even for yourselves on a beloved shore : [home, 
For some, fond eyes are pining till they come. 
How they will greet him when his toils are o'er, 
A nd laughing babes rush from the well-known door ! 
Is tliis your care ] ye toil for your own good — 
Ye feel and think — ^lias some immortal power 
Such purposes 1 or in a human mood, [solitude ? 
Dream ye some Power thus builds for man in 

T. 

« ' What is that Power 1 Ye mock yourselves, and 
A human heart to what ye cannot know : [give 
As if the cause of life could think and live ! 
'Twerc as if man's own works should feel, and show 
The hopes, and fears, and thoughts, from which they 
And he be like to them. Lo ! Plague is free [flow, 
To waste, Blight, Poison, Earthquake, Hail, and 
Disease, and Want, and worse Necessity [Snow, 
Of hate and ill, and Pride, and Fear, and Tyranny. 



« « What is that Power 1 Some moonstruck 

sophist stood 
Watching the shade from his own soul upthrown 
Fill heaven and darken Earth, and in such mood 
The Form he saw and worshipped was his own, 
His likeness in the world's vast miiTor shown ; 
And 'twere an innocent dream, but that a faith 
Nursed by fear's dew of poison, grows thereon. 
And that men say, that Power has chosen Death 
On all who scorn its laws, to wreak immortal vinrath. 

VII. 

" ' Men say that they themselves have heard and 
seen, [things, 

Or known from others who have known such 
A Shade, aForm,which Earth and Heavenbetween 
Wields an invisible rod — ^that Priests and Kings, 
Custom, domestic sway, ay, all that brings, 
Man's free-born soul beneath the oppressor's heel, 
Are his strong ministers, and that the stings 
Of death will make the wise his vengeance feel; 
Though truth and virtue arm their hearts with 
tenfold steeL 

VIII. 

" ' And it is said, this Power will punish wrong ; 
Yes, add despair to crime, and pain to pain ! 
And deepest hell, and deathless snakes among, 
AVill bind the wretch on whom is fixed a stain. 
Which, like a plague, a burden, and a bane, 
Clung to him while he lived ; — for love and hate, 

. Virtue and vice, they say are difference vain — ■ 
The will of strength is right — this human state 

Tyrants, that they may rule, with lies thus desolate. 

IX. 

« ' Alas, what strength ? Opinion is more frail 
Than yon dim cloud now fading on the moon 
Even while we gaze, though it awhile avail 
To hide the orb of truth — and every throne 
Of Earth or Heaven, though shadow rests thereon, 
One shape of many names : — for tliis ye plough 
The barren waves of ocean ; hence each one 
Is slave or tyrant ; all beti-ay and bow, 
Command, or kill, or fear, or wreak, or suffer wo. 

X. 

" ' Its names are each a sign which maketh holy 
All power — ay, the ghost, the dream, the shade, 
Of power — lust, falsehood,hate, and pride, and folly: 
The pattern whence all fraud and wrong is made, 
A law to which mankind has been beti-ayed ; 
And human love, is as the name well known 
Of a dear mother, whom the murderer laid 
In bloody grave, and, into darkness thrown. 
Gathered her wildered babes around liim as his own. 

XI. 

« ' love ! who to the hearts of wandering men 
Art as the calm to Ocean's weary waves ! 
Justice, or truth, or joy ! thou only can 
From slavery and reUgion's labyrinth caves 
Guide us, as one clear star the seaman saves. 
To give to all an equal share of good, 
To track the steps of freedom, though through 
She pass, to siiifer all in patient mood, [graves 
To weep for crime, though stained with thy friend's 
dearest blood. 

i2 



102 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" ' To feel the peace of self-contentment's lot, 
To own all sympathies, and outrage none, 
And, in the inmost bowers of sense and thought, 
Until life's sunny day is quite gone down. 
To sit and smile with Joy, or, not alone, 
To kiss salt tears from the worn cheek of Wo ; 
To live, as if to love and live were one, — 
This is not faith or law, nor those who bow 

To thrones on Heaven or Earth, such destiny may 
know. 

■xiir. 
« ' But children near their parents tremble now, 
Because they must obey — one rules another, 
And as one Power rules both high and low, 
So man is made tlie captive of his brother, 
And hate is throned on high with Fear her mother. 
Above the Highest — and those fountain-cells. 
Whence love yet flowed when faith had choked 

all other. 
Are darkened — 'Woman, as the bond-slave, dwells 

Of man, a slave ; and life is poisoned in its wells. 

XIV. 

« ' Man seeks for gold in mines, that he may weave 
A lasting chain for his own slavery ; — 
In fear and restless care that he may live 
He toils for others, who must ever be 
The joyless thralls of like captivity ; 
He murders, for his chiefs delight in ruin ; 
He builds the altar, that its idol's fee 
May*be his very blood ; he is pursuing [doing. 
0, bhnd and willing wretch ! his own obscure un- 

XT. 

" ' Woman ! — she is his slave, she has become 
A thing I weep to speak — the child of scorn. 
The outcast of a desolated home. 
Falsehood and fear, and toil, like waves have worn 
Channels upon her cheek, which smiles adorn. 
As calm decks the false Ocean : — well ye know 
What Woman is, for none of Woman born 
Can choose but drain the bitter dregs of wo, 
Which ever from the oppressed to the oppressors 
flow. 

XTI. 

" ' This need not be ; ye might ai-ise, and will 
That gold should lose its power, and thrones 

their glory ; 
That love, which none may bind, be free to fill 
The world, like light ; and evil faith, grown hoary 
With crime, be quenched and die. — Yon promon- 
Even now eclipses the descending moon ! — ■ [toiy 
Dungeons and palaces are transitory — 
High temples fade like vapour — Man alone 
Remains, whose will has power when all beside 

is gone. 

XVII. 

« < Let all be fi-ee and equal ! — From your hearts 
I feel an echo ; through my inmost fi-ame 
Like sweetest sound, seeking its mate, it darts — ■ 
Whence come ye, friends ? Alas, I cannot name 
All that I read of sorrow, toil, and shame. 
On your worn faces ; as in legends old 
Which make immortal the disastrous fame 
Of conquerors and impostors false and bold, 
The discord of your hearts I in your looks behold. 



XVIII. 

" ' Whence come ye, ftiends ] from pouringhuman 

blood 
Forth on the earth 1 or bring ye steel and gold, 
That Kings may dupe and slay the multitude 1 
Or from the famished poor, pale, weak, and cold, 
Bear ye the earnings of then- toil 1 unfold ! 
Speak ! are your hands in slaughter's sanguine hue 
Stain'd freshly] have your hearts in guile grown old ] 
Know yourselves thus 1 ye shall be pure as dew. 
And I will be a friend and sister unto you. 

XIX. 

« ' Disguise it not — ^we have one human heart — 
All mortal thoughts confess a common home ; 
Blush not for what may to thyself impart 
Stains of ine^^table crime : the doom 
Is this, which has, or may, or must, become 
Thine, and all humankind's. Ye are the spoil 
Which Time thus marks for the devouring tomb, 
Thou and thy thoughts and they, and all the toil 
Wherewith ye twiiie the rings of life's peipetual 
coil. 

XX. 

« ' Disguise it not- — ^ye blush for what ye hate, 
And Enmity is sister unto Shame ; 
Look on your mind — it is the book of fate — 
Ah ! it is dark with many a blazoned name 
Of misery — all are mirrors of the same ; 
But the dark fiend who with his iron pen 
Dipped in scorn's fiery poison, makes his fame 
Enduring there, would o'er the heads of men 
Pass harmless, if they scorned to make tlieir hearts 
liis den. 

XXI. 

" ' Yes, it is Hate, that shapeless fiendly thmg 
Of many names, all evil, some divine, 
Whom self-contempt arms with a mortal sting ; 
Which, when the heart its snaky folds entwme 
Is wasted quite, and when it doth repine 
To gorge such bitter prey, on all beside 
It turns with ninefold rage, as with its twine 
When Amphisbajna some fair bird has tied, 
Soon o'er the putrid mass he threats on every side. 

XXII. 

" ' Reproach not thine own soul, but know thyself. 
Nor hate another's crime, nor loathe thine own. 
It is the dark idolatry of self, [gone, 

Which, when our thoughts and actions once are 
Demands that man should weep, and bleed, and 
O vacant expiation ! be at rest. — [groan ; 

The past is Death's, the future is thine own ; 
And love and joy can make the foulest breast 
A paradise of flowers, where peace might build her 
nest.' 

XXIII. 

" ' Speak thou ! whence come ye 1 ' — A Youth made 
' Wearily, wearily o'er the boundless deep [reply, 
We sail : — ^thou readest well the misery 
Told in these faded eyes, but much doth sleep 
Within, which there the poor heart loves to keep, 
Or dare not wTite on the dishonoured brow ; 
Even from our childhood have we learned to steep 
The bread of slavery' in the tears of wo, 
And never dreamed of hope or refuge until now. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



103 



« < Yes — I must speak — my secret would have 

perished. 
Even with the heart it wasted, as a brand 
Fades in the dying flame whose Hfe it cherished, 
But that no human bosom can withstand 
Thee, wondrous Lady, and the mild command 
Of thy keen eyes : — yes, we are wretched slaves, 
Who from their wonted loves and native land 
Are reft, and bear o'er the dividing waves 
The unregarded prey of calm and happy graves. 

XXV. 

« ' We drag afar firom pastoral vales the fairest 
Among the daughters of those mountains lone, 
We drag them there, where all things best and 
rarest [gone 

Are stained and trampled : — years have come and 
Since, like the ship which bears me, I have known 
No thought ; — but now the eyes of one dear Maid 
On mine with light of mutual love have shown — 
She is my life, — I am but as the shade 
Of her, — a smoke sent up from ashes, soon to fade. 

XXVI. 

« ' For she must perish in the tyrant's hall — ■ 
Alas, alas !' — He ceased, and by the sail 
Sate cowering — ^but his sobs were heard by all, 
And still before the ocean and the gale 
The ship that fled fast till the stars 'gan to fail. 
All round me gathered with mute countenance, 
The Seamen gazed, the Pilot, worn and pale 
With toil, the Captain with gray locks, whose glance 
Met mine in restless awe — ^they stood as in a trance. 

XXTII. 

« ' Recede not] pause not now ! thou art grown old. 
But Hope vrill make thee young, for Hope and 

Youth 
Are children of one mother, even Love — behold ! 
The eternal stars gaze on us ! — is the truth 
Within your soul 1 care for your own, or ruth 
For other's sutferingsl do ye thirst to bear 
A heart which not the serpent custom's tooth 
May violate ? — Be free ! and even here. 
Swear to be firm till death !' They cried, < We 

swear ! we swear !' 

XXVIII. 

" The very darkness shook, as with a blast 
Of subterranean thunder at the cry ; 
The hollow shore its thousand echoes cast 
Into the night, as if the sea, and sky. 
And earth; rejoiced with new-born liberty : 
For in that name they swore ! Bolts were nndra'wn. 
And on the deck, with unaccustomed eye 
The captives gazing stood, and every one [shone. 
Shrank as the mconstanttorch upon her countenance 

XXIX. 

" ' They were earth's purest children, young and fair. 
With eyes the shrines of unawakencd thought, 
And brows as bright as spring or morning, ere 
Dark time had there its evil legend wrought 
In characters of cloud which wither not. — 
The change was like a dream to them ; but soon 
They knew the glory of their altered lot, 
In the bright wisdom of youth's breathless noon. 
Sweet talk, and smiles, and sighs, all bosoms did 
attune. 



" But one was mute, her cheeks and lips most fair, 
Changing their hue like lilies newly blown. 
Beneath a bright acacia's shadowy hair, 
Waved by the wind amid the sunny noon. 
Showed that her soul v^as quivering ; and full soon 
That Youth arose, and breathlessly did look 
On her and me, as for some speechless boon : 
I smiled, and both their hands in mine I took, 
And felt a soft dehght from what their spirits shook. 

CANTO IX. 
I. 
" That night we anchored in a woody bay, 
And sleep no more around us dared to hover 
Than, when all doubt and fear has past away. 
It shades the couch of some unresisting lover, 
Whose heart is now at rest : thus night past over 
In mutual joy : — around, a forest grew 
Of poplars and dark oaks, whose shade did cover 
The waning stars, prankt in the waters blue, [flew. 

And trembled in the wind which from the morning 
II. 
« The joyous mariners, and each free maiden, 
Now brought from the deep forest many a bough. 
With woodland spoil most innocently laden ; 
Soon wreaths of budding foliage seemed to flow 
Over the mast and sails, the stern and prow 
Were canopied with blooming boughs, — the while 
On the slant sun's path o'er the waves we go 
Rejoicing, like the dwellers of an isle [to smile. 

Doomed to pm'sue those waves that camrot cease 
III. 
" The many ships spotting the dark blue deep 
With snowy sails, fled fast as ours came nigh. 
In fear and wonder ; and on every steep 
Thousands did gaze, they heard the startling cry. 
Like earth's own voice lifted unconquerably 
To all her children, the unbounded mirth. 
The glorious joy of thy name — Liberty ! 
They heard ! — As o'er the mountains of the earth 

From peak to peak leap on the beams of morning's 
birth: 

IV. 

" So fi-om that cry over the boundless hills, 
Sudden was caught one universal sound. 
Like a volcano's voice, whose thunder fills 
Remotest skies, — such glorious madness found 
A path through human hearts with stream which 

di'owned 
Its struggling fears and cares, dark custom's brood ; 
They knew not whence it came, but felt around 
A wide contagion poured — they called aloud 

On Libert}' — ^that name lived on the sunny flood. 
y. 
" We reached the port — alas ! from many spirits 
The vs^isdom which had waked that cry, was fled, 
Like the brief glory which dark Heaven inherits 
From the false dawn, which fades ere it is spread, 
Upon the night's devouring darkness shed : 
Yet soon bright day will burst — even like a chasm 
Of fire, to burn tlie shrouds outworn and dead. 
Which wrap the world ; a wide enthusiasm. 

To cleanse the fevered world as with an earth- 
quake's spasm ! 



104 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" I walked through the great City then, but free 
From shame or fear; those toil-worn Mariners 
And happy Maidens did encompass me ; 
And like a subterranean wind that stirs 
Some forest among caves, the hopes and fears 
From every human soul, a murmur strange 
Made as I past ; and many wept, with tears 
Of joy and awe, and winged thoughts did range, 
And half-extinguished words, wliich prophesied of 
change. 

VII. 

" For, with strong speech I tore the veil that hid 
Nature, and Truth, and Liberty, and Love, — 
As one who from some mountain's pyramid, 
Points to the unrisen sun ! — the shades approve 
His truth, and flee from every stream and grove. 
Thus, gentle thoughts did many a bosom fill, — 
Wisdom the mail of tried affections wove 
For many a heart, and tameless scorn of ill, [will. 

Thrice steeped in molten steel the unconquerable 
Tin. 
" Some said I was a maniac wild and lost ; 
Some, that I scarce had risen from the grave 
The Prophet's virgin bride, a heavenly ghost : — ■ 
Some said I was a fiend from my weird cave, 
Who had stolen human shape, and o'er the wave, 
The forest, and the mountain, came ; — some said 
I was the child of God, sent down to save 
Women from bonds and death, and on my head 

The burden of their sins would frightfully be laid. 

IX. 

" But soon my human words found sympathy 
Li human hearts: the purest and the best. 
As friend with friend made common cause with me, 
And they were few, but resolute ; — the rest, 
Ere yet success the enterprise had blest. 
Leagued with me in their hearts ;■ — ^their meals, 

their slumber, 
Their hourly occupations, were possest 
By hopes which I had armed to overnumber 
Those hosts of meaner cares, which life's strong 

wings encumber. 

X. 

" But chiefly women, whom my voice did waken 
From their cold, careless, wilhng slavery. 
Sought me : one truth their dreary prison has 

shaken. 
They looked around, and lo ! they became free ! 
Their many tyrants sitting desolately 
In slave-deserted halls, could none restrain ; 
For wrath's red fire had withered in the eye. 
Whose lightning once was death,-nor fear,nor gain 
Could tempt one captive now to lock another's 

chain. 

XI. 

« Those who were sent to bind me, wept, and felt 
Their minds outsoar the bonds which clasped them 
Even as a waxen shape may waste and melt [round. 
In the white furnace ; and a visioned swound. 
A pause of hope and awe, the City bound. 
Which, like the silence of a tempest's birth. 
When in its awful shadow it has wound 
The sun, the wind, the ocean, and the earth. 
Hung terrible, ere yet the lightnings have leapt forth. 



" Like clouds inwoven in the silent sky, 

By winds from distant regions meeting there, 

In the high name of truth and liberty, 

Around the City millions gathered were. 

By hopes which sprang from many a hidden lair ; 

Words, which the lore of truth in hues of grace 

Arrayed, thine own wild songs which in the air 

Like homeless odours floated, and the name 

Of thee, and many a tongue which thou hadst dipped 
in flame. 

xiir. 
" The Tyrant knew his power was gone, but Fear, 
The nurse of Vengeance, bade him wait the event — 
That perfidy and custom, gold and prayer, 
And whatso'er, when force is impotent. 
To fraud the sceptre of the world has lent. 
Might, as he judged, confirm his failuig sway. 
Therefore throughout the streets, the Priests he 
To curse the rebels. — To their gods did they [sent 

For Earthquake, Plague, and Want, kneel in the 
public way. 

XIT. 

« And gi'ave and hoary men were bribed to tell 
From seats where law is made the slave of wrong, 
How glorious Athens in her splendour fell. 
Because her sons were fi-ee, — and that among 
Mankind, the many to the few belong. 
By Heaven, and Nature, and Necessity. 
They said, that age was truth, and that the young 
Marred with wild hopes the peace of slavery. 
With which old times and men had quelled the vain 
and free. 

XV. 

« And with the falsehood of their poisonous lips 
They breathed on the enduring memory 
Of sages and of bards a brief eclipse ; 
There was one teacher, whom necessity 
Had anned with strength and wrong against man- 
His slave and his avenger aye to be ; [kmd. 

That we were veak and sinful, frail and blind, 
And that the will of one was peace, and we 
Should seek for nought on earth but toil and misery. 

XVI. 

« ' For thus we might avoid the hell hereafter.' 
So spake the hypocrites, who cursed and lied ; 
Alas, their sway was past, and tears and laughter 
Clung to their hoary hair, withering the pride 
Which in their hollow hearts dared still abide ; 
And yet obscencr slaves with smoother brow. 
And sneers on their strait hps, thui, blue, and 

wide. 
Said, that the rule of men was over now, [bow ; 
And hence, the subject world to woman's will must 

XVII. 

" And gold was scattered through the streets, and 
Flowed at a hundred feasts within the wall, [wine 
In vain ! The steady towers in Heaven did shine 
As they were wont, nor at the priestly call 
Left Plague her banquet in the ^tluop's hall, 
Nor Famine from the rich man's portal came, 
W^hcre at her ease she ever preys on all 
Who throng to kneel for food : nor fear, nor shame. 
Nor faith, nor discord, dimmed hope's newly-kindled 
flame. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



105 



XVIII. 

" For gold was as a god whose faith began 
To fade, so that its worshippers were few, 
And Faith itself, which in the heart of man 
Gives shape, voice, name, to spectral Terror, knew 
Its downfall, as the altars lonelier grew. 
Till the Priests stood alone within the fane ; 
The shafts of falsehood unpolluting flew. 
And the cold sneers of calumny were vain 
The union of the free with discord's brand to stain. 

XIX. 

"The rest thou knowest. — Lo! — we two are here — 
We have survived a ruin wide and deep — 
Strange thoughts are mine. — I cpnnot grieve nor 
Sitting with thee upon this lonely steep [fear, 
I smile, though human love should make me weep. 
We have sur\'ived a joy that knows no sorrow, 
And I do feel a mighty calmness creep 
Over my heart, which can no longer borrow 
Its hues from chance or change, dark children of 
to-morrow. 

XX. 

"We know not what will come — ^yet, Laon, dearest, 
Cythna shall be the prophetess of love. 
Her lips shall rob thee of the grace thou wearest, 
To hide thy heart, and clothe the shapes which rove 
Within the homeless future's wintry grove : 
For I now, sitting thus beside thee, seem 
Even with thy breath and blood to live and move. 
And violence and wrong are as a dream [stream. 
Which rolls from steadfast truth, an unre turning 

XXI. 

" The blasts of autumn drive the winged seeds 
Over the earth, — next come the snows, and rain. 
And frosts, and storms, which dreary winter leads 
Out of his Scythian cave, a savage train ; 
Behold ! Spring sweeps over the world again, 
Shedding soft dews from her aetherial wings ; 
Flowers on the mountains, fruits over the plain, 
And music on the waves and woods she flings, 
And love on all that lives, and calm on lifeless 
things. 

XXII. 

" Spring ! of hope, and love, and youth, and glad- 
ness. 

Wind-winged emblem ! brightest, best, and fairest ! 

Whence comest thou, when, with dark winter's 
sadness 

The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest? 

Sister of joy ! thou art the child who wearest 

Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet ; 

Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest 

Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle 

feet, [sheet. 

Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding- 

XXIII. 

"Virtue, and Hope, and Love, hke light and Heaven, 
Surround the world. — We are their chosen slaves. 
Has not the whirlwind of our spirit driven [caves ] 
Truth's deathless germs to thought's remotest 
Lo, Winter comes ! — the grief of many graves, 
The frost of death, the tempest of the sword, 
The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine waves 
Stagsiate like ice at Faith, the enchanter's word, 
And bind all human hearts in its repose abhorred. 
14 



« The seeds are sleeping in the soil : meanwhile 
The tyrant peoples dungeons with his prey ; 
Pale victims on the guarded scaffold smile 
Because tliey cannot speak ; and, day by day, 
The moon of wasting Science wanes away 
Among her stars, and in that darkness vast 
The sons of earth to their foul idols pray. 
And gray Priests triumph, and like blight or blast 

A shade of selfish care o'er human looks is cast. 
xxy. 
" This is the Winter of the world ! — and here 
We die even as the winds of autumn fade, 
Expiring in the frore and foggy air. — [made 
Behold ! Spring comes, though we must pass who 
The promise of its birth, — even as the shade 
Wliich from our death, as from a mountain, flings 
The future, a broad sunrise ; thus aiTayed 
As with the plumes of overshadowing wings, 

From its dark gulf of chains, Earth like an eagle 
springs. 

XXTI. 

" O dearest love ! we shall be dead and cold 
Before this morn may on the world arise : 
Wouldst thou the glory of its dawn behold 1 
Alas ! gaze not on me, but turn thine eyes 
On thine own heart — it is a paradise 
Which everlasting spring has made its own. 
The while drear Winter fills the naked skies. 
Sweet streams of sunny thought, and flowers fresh 
blown 
Are there, and weave thefr sounds and odours into 



" In their own hearts the earnest of the hope 
Which made them great, the good will ever find ; 
And though some envious shade may interlope 
Between the cfTect and it, one comes behind, 
Who aye the friture to the past will bind — 
Necessity, whose sightless strength for ever 
Evil with evil, good with good, must wind 
In bands of union, which no power may sever: 
They must bring forth their kind, and be divided 
never ! 

XXYIII. 

" The good and mighty of departed ages 
Are in their gi-aves, the innocent and free, 
Heroes and Poets, and prevailing Sages, 
Who leave the vesture of their majesty 
To adorn and clothe this naked world ; — and we 
Are like to them — such perish, but they leave 
All hope, or love, or truth, or liberty. 
Whose forms their mighty spirits could conceive 
To be a rule and law to ages that survive. 

XXIX. 

" So be the turf heaped over our remains 
Even in our happy youth, and that strange lot 
Whate'er it be, when in these mingling veins 
The blood is still, be ours ; let sense and thought 
Pass from our being, or be numbered not 
Among the things that are ; let those who come 
Behind, for whom our steadfast will has bought 
A calm inheritance, a glorious doom. 
Insult with careless tread our undivided tomb. 



106 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



« Our many thoughts and deeds, our life and love. 
Our happiness, and all that we have been, 
Immortally must live, and burn, and move, 
When we shall bo no more ; the world has seen 
A type of peace ; and as some most serene 
And lovely spot to a poor maniac's eye, 
After long years, some sweet and moving scene 
Of youthful hope returning suddenly, 
Quells liis long madness — thus man shall remem- 
ber thee. 

XXXI. 

« And calumny meanwhile shall feed on us, 
As worms devour the dead, and near the throne 
And at the altar, most accepted thus 
Shall sneers and curses be ; — what we have done 
None shall dare vouch, though it be truly known ; 
That record shall remain, when they must pass 
Who built their pride on its obUvion ; 
And fame, in human hope which sculptured was, 
Survive the perished scrolls of unenduring brass. 

XXXII. 

« The while we two, beloved must depart, 
And Sense and Reason, those enchanters fair, 
Whose wand of power is hope, would bid the heart 
That gazed beyond the wormy grave despair : 
These eyes, these lips, this blood, seems darkly 
To fade in hideous ruin ; no calm sleep [there 
Peopling with golden dreams the stagnant air. 
Seems our obscure and rotting eyes to steep 
In joy ; — but senseless death — a ruindark and deep ! 

XXXIII. 

These are blind fancies. Reason cannot know 
What sense can neither feel, nor thought conceive ; 
There is delusion in the world — and wo. 
And fear and pain — ^we know not whence we live, 
Or why, or how, or what mute Power may give 
Their being to each plant, and star, and beast. 
Or even these thoughts. — Come near me ! I do 
A chain I cannot break — I am possest [weave 
With thoughts too swift and strong for one lone 
human breast. 

XXXIT. 

" Yes, yes — 'thy kiss is sweet, thy lips are warm — 
O ! wilhngly, beloved, would these eyes, 
Might they no more drink being from thy form, 
Even as to sleep whence we again arise. 
Close their faint orbs in death. I fear nor prize 
Aught that can now betide, unshared by thee — • 
Yes, Love, when wisdom faOs, makes Cythna wise; 
Darkness and death, if death be true, must be 
Dearer than life and hope, if uncnjoyed with thee. 

xxxr. 

« Alas ! our thoughts flow on with stream, whose 

waters 
Return not to their fountain — Earth and Heaven, 
Tlie Ocean and the Sun, the clouds their daughters. 
Winter, and Spring, and Morn, and Noon, and 
All that we are or know, is darkly driven [Even, 
Towards one gulf. — Lo ! what a change is come 
Since I first spake — ^but time shall be forgiven. 
Though it change all but thee !" She ceased — 
night's gloom [dome. 

Meanwhile had fallen on earth from the sky's sunless 



XXXVI. 

Though she had ceased, her countenance, unlifled 
To heaven, still spake, with solemn glory bright; 
Her dark deep eyes, her lips, whose motions gifted 
The air they breathed with love, her locks undight; 
« Fair star of life and love," I cried, " my soul's de- 
Why lookest thou on the crystalUne skies ? [light, 

that my spirit were yon Heaven of night, 
Which gazes on thee with its thousand eyes ! 

She turned to me and smiled — that smile was Para- 
dise! 

CANTO X. 
I. 

Was there a human spirit in the steed, 
That thus with his proud voice, ere night was gone, 
He ])roke our Unked rest ] or do indeed 
All living things a common nature own, 
And thought erect a universal throne. 
Where many shapes one tribute ever bearl 
And Earth, their mutual mother, does she groan 
To see her sons contend 1 and makes she bare 
Her breast, that all in peace its drauiless stores may 
share 1 

II. 

1 have heard friendly sounds from many a tongue 
W^hich was not human — the lone Nightingale 
Has answered me with her most soothing song, 
Out of her ivy bower, when I sate pale 

With grief, and sighed beneath ; from many a dale 
The Antelopes who flocked for food have spoken 
With happy sounds, and motions, that avail 
Like 2iian's own speech ; and such was now the 
token [was broken. 

Of waning night, whose calm by that proud neigh 

III. 

Each night, that mighty steed bore me abroad, 
And I returned with food to our retreat, 
And dark intelligence ; the blood which flowed 
Over the fields, had stained the courser's feet ; — 
Soon the dust drinks that bitter dew, — then meet 
The vulture, and the wild-dog, and the snake, 
The wolf, and the hysena gray, and eat 
The dead in horrid truce : their throngs did make 
B eliind the steed, a chasm like waves in a ship's wake. 

IV. 

For fi-om the utmost realms of earth, came pouring 
The banded slaves from every despot sent 
At that throned traitor's summons ; like the roaring 
Of fire, whose floods the wild deer circumvent 
In the scorched pastures of the South ; so bent 
The armies of the leagued kings around 
Their files of steel and flame ; — the continent 
Trembled, as with a zone of ruin bound ; [sound. 
Beneath their feet, the sea shook with their navies' 

From every nation of the earth they came, 
The multitude of moving heartless things, 
Whom slaves call men: obediently they came, 
Like sheep whom from the fold the shepherd brings 
To the stall, red with blood ; their many Icings 
Led them, thus erring, from their native home ; 
Tartar and Frank, and millions whom the wings 
Of Indian breezes lull, and many a band 
The Arctic Anarch sent, and Idumea's sand, 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



107 



Fertile in prodogies and lies ; — so there 
Strange natures made a brotherhood of ill. 
The desert savage ceased to grasp in fear 
His Asian shield and bow, when, at the ^vill 
Of Europe's subtler son, the bolt would kill 
Some shepherd sitting on a rock secure ; 
But smiles of wondering joy his face would fill, 
And savage sympathy : those slaves impure, 
Each one the other thus irom ill to ill did lure. 

TII. 

For traitorously did that foul Tyrant robe 
His countenance in lies ; — even at the hour 
When he was snatched from death, then o'er the 

globe. 
With secret signs from many a mountain tower, 
With smoke by day, and fire by night, the power 
Of kings and priests, those dark conspirators 
He called : — ^they knew his cause their own, and 

swore 
Like wolves and serpents to their mutual wars 
Strange truce, with many a rite which Earth and 

Heaven abhors. 

VIII. 

Myriads had come — millions were on their way ; 
Tiie Tyrant passed, surrounded by the steel 
Of hired assassins, through the public way, [reel 
Choked with his country's dead ; — his footsteps 
On the fi-esh blood — he smiles. " Ay, now I feel 
I am a King in truth !" he said, and took 
His royal seat, and bade the torturing wheel 
Be brought, and fire, and pincers, and the hook. 
And scorpions ! that his soul on its revenge might 
look. 

IX. 

« But first go slay the rebels. — Why return 
The ^^ctor bands]" he said: "millions yet live. 
Of whom the weakest with one word might turn 
The scales of victory yet ; — let none sur^dve 
But those within the walls — each fifth shall give 
The expiation for his brethren here. — ■ 
Go forth, and waste and kill ;" — " O king, forgive 
My speech," a soldier answered ; — " but we fear 
The spirits of the night, and morn is drawing near ; 

X. 

" For we were slaying still without remorse, 
And now that di'eadful chief beneath my hand 
Defenceless lay, when on a hell-black horse, 
An angel bright as day, waving a brand 
Which flashed among the stars, passed." — " Dost 

thou stand 

Parleying with me, thou WTCtch 1 " the king replied ; 

" Slaves, bind him to the wheel ; and of this band. 

Whoso will drag that woman to his side [beside ; 

That scared him thus, may burn his dearest foe 

XT. 

" And gold and glor}'^ shall be his. — Go forth !" 
They rushed into the plain — Loud was the roar 
Of their career : the horsemen shook the earth ; 
The wheeled artillery's speed the pavement tore ; 
The infantry, file after file, did pour [slew 

Their clouds on the utmost hills. Five days they 
Among the wasted fields: the sixth saw gore 
Stream through the city ; on the seventh the dew 
Ofslaughter became stiff; and there was peace anew. • 



Peace in the desert fields and villages. 
Between the glutted beasts and mangled dead ! 
Peace in the silent streets ! save when the cries 
Of victims, to their fiery judgment led. 
Made pale their voiceless lips, who seemed to dread 
Even in their dearest kindred, lest some tongue 
Be faithless to the fear yet unbetrayed ; 
Peace in the Tyrant's palace, where the throng 
Waste the triumphal hours in festival and song ! 

XIII. 

Day afi;er day the burning Sun rolled on 
Over the death-polluted land ; — it came 
Out of the east like fire, and fiercely shone 
A lamp of Autumn, ripening with its flame 
The few lone ears of corn ; — the sky became 
Stagnate with heat, so that each cloud and blast 
Languished and died ; the thirstmg air did claim 
All moisture, and a rotting vapour past 
From the unburied dead, invisible and fast, 

XIV. 

First Want, then Plague, came on the beasts; their 
Failed, and they drew the breath of its decay, [food 
Millions on millions, whom the scent of blood 
Had lured, or who, from regions far away, 
Had ti-acked the hosts in festival array, 
From their dark deserts ; gaunt and wasting now, 
Stalked like fell shades among their perished prey ; 
Li their green eyes a strange disease did glow. 
They sank in hideous spasm, or pains severe and 
slow. 

XV. 

The fish were poisoned in the streams ; the birds 
In the green woods perished ; the insect race 
Was withered up ; the scattered flocks and herds 
Who had survived the wild beasts' hungry chase 
Died moaning, each upon the other's flice 
In helpless agony gazing ; round the City 
All niglit, the lean hj^aenas tlicir sad case 
Like starving infants wailed — a woful ditty ! [pity. 
And many a mother wept, pierced with unnatural 

xvr. 
Amid the aerial minarets on high, 
The ^^thiopian vultures fluttering fell 
From their long line of brethren in the sky, 
Startling the concourse of mankind. — Too well 
These signs the coming mischief did foretell : — • 
Strange panic first, a deep and sickening dread 
Within each heart, like ice, did sink and dwell 
A voiceless thought of evil, which did spread 
With the quick glance of eyes, like withering 
lightnings shed. 

XVII. 

Day afl;er day, when the year wanes, the frosts 
Strip its green crown of leaves, till all is bare ; 
So on those strange and congregated hosts 
Came Famine, a swift shadow, and the air 
Groaned with the burden of a new despair; 
Famine, than whom Misrule no deadlier daughter 
Feeds from her thousand breasts, though sleeping 
there [Slaughter, 

With lidless eyes, lie Faith, and Plague, and 
A ghastly brood ; conceived of Lethe's sullen water. 



108 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XVIII. 

There was no food ; the corn was trampled down, 
The flocks and herds had perished ; on the shore 
The dead and putrid flesh were ever throwTi : 
The deeps were foodless, and the winds no more 
Creaked with the weight of birds, but, as before 
Those winged tilings sprang forth, weie void of 

shade ; 
The vines and orchards, Autumn's golden store, 
Were burned; so that the meanest food was 

weighed 
With gold, and Avarice died before the god it made. 

XIX. 

There was no corn — in the wide market-place 
All loathliest things, even human flesh, was sold ; 
They weighed it in small scales — and many a face 
Was fixed in eager horror then : his gold 
The miser brought ; the tender maid, grown bold 
Through hunger, bared her scorned charms in vain ; 
The mother brought her eldest-born, controlled 
By instinct blind as love, but turned again 
And bade her infant suck, and died in silent pain. 

XX. 

Then fell blue Plague upon the race of man. 
" 0, for the sheathed steel, so late which gave 
Oblivion to the dead, when the streets ran [grave 
With brothers' blood ! 0, that the earthquake's 
Would gape, or Ocean lift; its stifling wave !" 
Vain cries — throughout the streets, thousands 
Each by his fiery torture, howl and rave, [pursued 
Or sit, in frenzy's unimagined mood, 
Upon fresh heaps of dead — a ghastly multitude. 

xxr. 

It was not hunger now, but thirst. Each well 
Was choked with rotting corpses, and became 
A cauldron of green mist made visible 
At sunrise. Thither still the myriads came. 
Seeking to quench the agony of the flame [veins ; 
Which raged hke poison through their bursting 
Naked they were from torture, without shame, 
Spotted with nameless scars and lurid blains. 
Childhood, and youth, and age, writhing in savage 
pains. 

XXII. 

It was not thirst, but madness ! Many saw 
Their own lean image every where ; it went 
A ghastlier self beside them, till the awe 
Of that dread sight to self-destruction sent 
Those shrieking victims ; some, ere life was spent, 
Sought, with a horrid sympathy, to shed 
Contagion on the sound ; and others rent 
Their matted hair, and cried aloud, " We tread 
On fire ! the avenging Power his hell on earth has 
spread." 

XXIII. 

Sometimes the living by the dead were hid 
Near the great fountain in the public square, 
Where coi-pses made a crumbling pyramid 
Under the sun, was heard one stifled prayer 
For life, in the hot silence of the air ; 
And strange 'twas, amid that hideous heap to see 
Some shrouded in their long and golden hair. 
As if not dead, but slumbering quietly, [agony. 
Like forms which sculptors carve, then love to 



xxiy. 

Famine had spared the palace of the king : — 
He rioted in festival the while, [fling 

He and his guards and priests; but Plague did 
One shadow upon all. Famine can smile 
On him who brings it food, and pass, with guile 
Of thankful falsehood, like a courtier gi'ay, 
The house-dog of the throne ; but many a mile 
Comes Plague, a winged wolf, who loathes alway 
The garbage and the scum that strangers make her 
prey. 

XXV. 

So, near the throne, amid the gorgeous feast, 
Sheathed in resplendent arms, or loosely dight 
To luxury, ere the mockery yet had ceased 
That lingered on his lips, the wanior's might 
Was loosened, and a new and ghastlier night 
In dreams of frenzy lapped his eyes ; he fell 
Headlong, or with stifl" eyeballs sate upright 
Among the guests, or raving mad, did tell [hell. 
Strange truths ; a dying seer of dark oppression's 

XXVI. 

The Princes and the Priests were pale with terror ; 
That monstrous faith wherewith they ruled man- 
Fell, like a shaft loosed by the bowman's error, [kind 
On their own hearts : they sought and they could 
No refuge — 'twas the bhnd who led the blind ! [find 
So, through the desolate streets to the high fane, 
The many-tongued and endless armies wind 
In sad procession : each among the train 
To his ovra Idol lifl;s his supplications vain. 

XXVII. 

« God !" they cried, « we know our secret pride 
Has scorned thee, and thy worslrip, and thy name ; 
Secure in human power, we have defied 
Thy fearful might ; we bend in fear and shame 
Before thy presence; with the dust we claim 
Kindred. Be mercifirl, King of Heaven ! 
Most justly have we suflcred for thy fame 
Made dim, but be at length our sins forgiven. 
Ere to despair and death thy worshippers be driven. 

XXVIII. 

" King of Glory ! Thou alone hast power ! 
Who can resist thy will 1 who can restrain 
Thy wrath, when on the gviilty thou dost shower 
The shafts of thy revenge, — a blistering rain 1 
Greatest and best, be mercifiil again ! 
Have we not stabbed thine enemies, and made 
The Earth an altar, and the Heavens a fine, [laid 
Where thou wert worshipped with their blood, and 
Those hearts in dust which would thy searchless 
works have weighed 1 

XXIX. 

" Well didst thou loosen on this impious City 
Thine angels of revenge : recall them now ; 
Thy worshippers abased, here kneel for pity, 
And bind their souls by an immortal vow : 
We swear by thee ! And to our oath do thou 
Give sanction, from thine hell of fiends and flame, 
That we will kill with fire and torments slow. 
The last of those who mocked thy holy name, 
And scorned the sacred laws thy prophets did pro- 
claim." 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



109 



Thus they with trembhng limbs and paUid lips 
Worshipped their own hearts' image, dim and vast, 
Scared by the shade wherewith they would eclipse 
The light of other minds ; — troubled they past 
From the great Temple. Fiercely still and fast 
The arrows of the plague among them fell, 
And they on one another gazed aghast, 
And through the hosts contention wild befell, [tell. 
As each of his own god the wondi'ous works did 

XXXI. 

And Oromaze, Joshua, and Mahomet, [Foh, 

Moses, and Buddh, Zerdusht, and Brahm, and 
A tumult of strange names, which never met 
Before, as watchwords of a single wo. 
Arose. Each raging votary 'gan to throw 
Aloft his armed hands, and each did howl 
"Our God alone is God!" and slaughter now 
Would have gone forth, when, from beneath a cowl, 
A voice came forth, which pierced like ice through 
every soul. 

XXXII. 

Twas an Iberian Priest from whom it came, 
A zealous man, who led the legioned west 
With words which faith and pride had steeped in 
To quell the unbelievers; a dire guest [flame, 
Even to his friends was he, for in his breast 
Did hate and guile he watchful, intertwined, 
Twin serpents in one deep and winding nest ; 
He loathed all faith beside his ovra, and pined 
To vnreak his fear of Heaven in vengeance on man- 
kind. 

XXXIII. 

But more he loathed and hated the clear light 
Of wisdom and free thought, and more did fear, 
Lest, kindled once, its beams might pierce the night. 
Even where his Idol stood ; for, far and near 
Did many a heart in Europe leap to hear 
That faith and tyranny were trampled dovra ; 
Many a pale victim doomed for truth to share 
The murderer's cell, or see, with helpless groan, 
The priests his children drag for slaves to serve 
their own. 

XXXIV. 

He dared not kill the infidels with fire 
Or steel, in Europe ; the slow agonies 
Of legal torture mocked his keen desire : 
So he made truce with those who did despise 
The expiation, and the sacrifice, 
That, though detested, Islam's kindred creed 
Might crush for him those deadlier enemies ; 
For fear of God did in liis bosom breed 
A jealous hate of man, an luireposing need. 

XXXV. 

" Peace ! Peace !" he cried. " When we are dead, 

the Day 
Of Judgment comes, and all shall surely know 
Whose God is God, each fearfully shall pay 
The errors of his faith in endless wo ! 
But there is sent a mortal vengeance now 
On earth, because an impious race had spumed 
Him whom we all adore, — a subtle foe. 
By whom for ye this dread reward was earned, 
And kingly thrones, which rest on faith, nigh 
overturned. 



XXXVI. 

" Think ye, because we weep, and kneel, and pray. 
That God will lull the pestilence 1 It rose 
Even from beneath his throne, where, many a day 
His mercy soothed it to a dark repose : 
It walks upon the earth to judge his foes, 
And what art thou and I, that he should deign 
To curb his ghastly minister, or close 
The gates of death, ere they receive the twain 
Who shook with mortal spells his imdefended reign 1 

XXXVII. 

« Ay, there is famine in the gulf of hell, 
Its giant worms of fire for ever yawn, — • 
Their lurid eyes are on us ! Those who fell 
By the swift shafts of pestilence ere dawn. 
Are in their jaws ! They hunger for the spavm 

■ Of Satan, their owii brethren, who were sent 
To make our souls their spoil. See! see! they fawn 
Like dogs, and they will sleep v^ath luxury spent, 

When those detested hearts their iron fangs have 
rent! 

XXXVIII. 

" Our God may then lull Pestilence to sleep : — 
Pile high the pyre of expiation now ! 
A forest's spoil of boughs, and on the heap 
Pour venomous gums, which sullenly and slow. 
When touched by flame, shall bum, and melt, 

and flow, 
A stream of chnging fire, — and fix on high 
A net of iron, and spread forth below 
A couch of snakes, and scorpions, and the fiy 
Of centipedes and worms, earth's hellish progeny ! 

XXXIX. 

" Let Laon and Laone on that pyre, [pray 

Linked tight with burning brass, perish ! — then 
That, with this sacrifice, the withering ire 
OfHeaven maybe appeased." He ceased, and they 
A space stood silent, as far, far away 
The echoes of his voice among them died ; 
And he knelt dowTi upon the dust, alway 
Muttering the curses of his speechless pride, 
Whilst shame, and fear, and awe, the ariiues did 

divide. 

xi. 
His voice was like a blast that burst the portal 
Of fabled hell ; and as he spake, each one 
Saw gape beneath the chasms of fire immortal, 
And Heaven above seemed cloven, where, on a 

throne 
Girt round with storms and shadows, sate alone 
Their King and Judge. Fear killed in every breast 
All natural pity then, a fear unknown 
Before, and with an inward fire possest, 
They raged like homeless beasts whom burning 

woods invest. 

XLI. 

'Twas mom. — At noon the public crier went forth. 
Proclaiming through the living and the dead, 
" The Monarch saith, that his great empire's worth 
Is set on Laon and Laone's head : 
He who but one yet living here can lead. 
Or who the life from both their hearts can wring. 
Shall be the kingdom's heir, — a glorious meed ! 
But he who both alive can hither bring, [King." 
The Princess shall espouse, and reign an equal 
K 



no 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Ere night the pjTe was piled, the net of iron 
Was spread above, the fearful couch below ; 
It overtopped the towers that did environ 
That spacious square ; for Fear is never slow 
To build the thrones of Hate, her mate and foe, 
So, she scourged forth the maniac multitude 
To rear this pyramid — ^tottering and slow. 
Plague-stricken, foodless, like lean herds pur- 
sued 
By gadflies, they have piled the heath, and gums, 
and wood. 

XLIII. 

Night came, a starless and a moonless gloom. 
Until the dawn, those hosts of many a nation 
Stood round that pile, as near one lover's tomb 
Two gentle sisters mourn their desolation ; 
And in the silence of that expectation. 
Was heard on high the reptile's hiss and crawl — 
It was so deep, save when the devastation 
Of the swift pest with fearful interval. 
Marking its path with shrieks, among the crowd 
would fall. 

XLIV. 

Morn came. — Among those sleepless multitudes. 
Madness, and Fear, and Plague, and Famine, 

still 
Heaped corpse on corpse, as in autumnal woods 
The frosts of many a wind with dead leaves fill 
Earth's cold and sullen brooks. In silence still 
The pale survivors stood ; ere noon, the fear 
Of hell became a panic, which did kill 
Like hunger or disease, with whispers drear. 
As " Hush ! hark ! Come they yet 1 Just Heaven ! 

thuie hour is near !" 

XLV. 

And Priests rushed through their ranks, some 

counterfeiting 
The rage they did inspire, some mad indeed 
With their own lies. They said their god was 

waiting 
To see his enemies writhe, and burn, and 

bleed, — 
And that, till then, the snakes of Hell had need 
Of human souls. — Three hundred furnaces 
Soon blazed through the wide City, where, with 

speed, 
Men brought their infidel kindred to appease 
God's wrath, and while they burned, knelt round 

on quivering knees. 

XLYI. 

The noontide sun was darkened with that smoke, 
The winds of eve dispersed those ashes gray. 
The madness which these rites had lulled, awoke 
Again at sunset. — Who shall dare to say 
The deeds which night and fear brought forth, or 

weigh 
In balance just the good and e^^l there 1 
He might man's deep and searchless heart dis- 
play, 
And cast a light on those dim labyrinths, where 
Hope, near imagined chasms, is struggling with 
despair. 



'Tis said, a mother dragged three children then. 
To those fierce flames which roast the eyes in the 
And laughed and died ; andthatunholy men, [head, 
Feasting like -fiends upon the infidel dead. 
Looked from their meal, and saw an Angel tread 
The visible floor of Heaven, and it was she ! 
And, on that night, one without doubt or dread 
Came to the fire, and said, " Stop, I am he ! 
Kill me !" — They burned them both with hellish 
mockery. 

XLTIII. 

And, one by one, that night, young maidens came. 
Beauteous and calm, like shapes of living stone 
Clothed in the light of dreams, and by the flame 
Which shrank as overgorged, they laid them down, 
And sung a low sweet song, of which alone 
One word was heard, and that was Liberty ; 
And that some kissed their marble feet, with moan 
Like love, and died, and then that they did die 
Withhappy smiles, which sunk in white tranquillity. 

CANTO XL 
I. 

Sue saw me not — ^she heard me not — alone 
Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood ; 
She spake not, breathed not, moved not — there was 
Over her look, the shadow of a mood ["thrown 

Which only clothes the heart in solitude, 
A thought of voiceless death. — She stood alone. 
Above, the Heavens were spread ; — below, tl^e flood 
Was murmuring in Its caves ; — the wind had blown 

Her hair apart, tlirough which her eyes and forehead 
shone. 

II. 
A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains ; 
Before its blue and moveless depth were flying [tains 
Gray mists poured forth from the unresting foun- 
Of darkness in the North : — ^the day was dying : — 
Sudden, the sun shone forth ; its beams were lying 
Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see. 
And on the shattered vapours, which, defS'ing 
The power of light in vain, tossed restlessly 

In the red Heaven, like wrecks in a tempestuous sea. 
III. 
It was a stream of living beams, whose bank 
On either side by the cloud's cleft was made ; 
And where its chasms that flood of glory drank. 
Its waves gushed forth like fire, and, as if swayed 
By some mute tempest, rolled on her. The shade 
Of her bright image floated on the river 
Of liquid light, which then did end and fade — 
Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver ; 

Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flame did quiver. 

IV. 

I stood beside her, but she saw me not — 
She looked upon the sea, and skies, and earth. 
Rapture, and love, and admiration, wrought 
A passion deeper far than tears, or mirth. 
Or speech, or gesture, or whate'er has birth 
From common joy ; which, with the speechless 
That led her there, united, and shot forth [feeling 
From her fair eyes, a light of deep revealing, 
All but her dearest self from my regard concealing. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Ill 



Her lips were parted, and the measured breath 
Was now heard there ; — her dark and intricate eyes 
Orb within orb, deeper than sleep or death, 
Absorbed the glories of the burning skies, 
Which, mingling with her heart's deep ecstacies, 
Burst from her looks and gestures; — and a light 
Of liquid tenderness, like love, did rise [quite 
From her whole frame, — an atmosphere which 
Arrayed her in its beams, tremulous and soft and 
bright. 

TI. 

She would have clasped me to her glowing frame ; 
Those warm and odorous Hps might soon have shed 
On mine the fragrance and the invisible flame 
Which now the cold winds stole; — she would 

have laid 
Upon my languid heart her dearest head ; 
I might have heard her voice, tender and sweet ; 
Her eyes mingling with mine, might soon have fed 
My soul with their own joy. — One moment yet 
I gazed — 'We parted then, never again to meet ! 

VII. 

Never but once to meet on earth again ! 
She heard me as I fled — her eager tone 
Sank on my heart, and almost wove a chain 
Around my will to link it with her own. 
So that my stern resolve was almost gone. 
" I cannot reach thee ! whither dost thou fly 1 
My steps are faint. — •Come back, thou dearest one — 
Return, ah me ! return !" The wind passed by 
On which those accents died, faint, far, and linger- 

VIII. 

Wo ! wo ! that moonless midnight. — Want and 
Were horrible, but one more fell doth rear, [Pest 
As in a hydra's swarming lair, its crest 
Eminent among those victims — even the Fear 
Of Hell : each girt by the hot atmosphere 
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion stung 
By his own rage upon his burning bier 
Of circling coals of fire ; but still there clung 
One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads 
uphung : 

IX. 

Not death — death was no more refuge or rest ; 
Not life — it was despair to be ! — not sleep. 
For fiends and chasms of fire had dispossessed 
All natural dreams ; to wake was not to weep, 
But to gaze mad and pallid, at the leap 
To which the future, like a snaky scourge. 
Or like some tyrant's eye, which aye doth keep 
Its withering beam upon his slaves, did urge 
Their steps: — they heard the roar of Hell's sul- 
phureous surge. 

X. 

Each of that multitude alone, and lost 
To sense of outward things, one hope yet knew ; 
As on a foam-girt crag some seaman tost. 
Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew [through. 
Whilst now the ship is splitting through and 
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was heard, 
Started from sick despair, or if there flew 
One murmur on the wind, or if some word [stirred. 
Which none can gather yet, the distant crowd has 



Why became cheeks, wan with the kiss of death 
Paler from hope ] they had sustained despair. 
Why watched those myriads with suspended breath 
Sleepless a second night ] they are not here 
The victims, and hour by hour, a vision drear. 
Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold dead ; 
And even in death their lips are writhed with fear. 
The crowd is mute and moveless — overhead 
Silent Arcturus shines — Ha ! hear'st thou not the 
tread 

XII. 

Of rushing feet 1 laughter ? the shout, the scream. 
Of triumph not to be contained 1 See ! hark ! 
They come, they come ! give way ! Alas, ye deem 
Falsely — 'tis but a crowd of maniacs stark 
Driven, like a troop of spectres, through the dark 
From the choked well, whence a bright death- 
fire sprung, 
A lurid earth-star, which dropped many a spark 
From its blue train, and spreading widely, clung 
To their wild hair, Uke mist the topmost pines 
among. 

XIII. 

And many from the crowd collected there. 
Joined that strange dance in fearftil sympathies ; 
There was the silence of a long despair. 
When the last echo of those terrible cries 
Came fi'om a distant street, like agonies 
Stifled afar. — Before the Tyrant's throne 
All night his aged Senate sate, their eyes 
In stony expectation fixed ; when one 
Sudden before them stood, a Stranger and alone. 

XIV. 

Dark Priests and haughty Warriors gazed on him 
With baflled wonder, for a hermit's vest 
Concealed his face ; but when he sj^ake, his tone, 
Ere yet the matter did their thoughts arrest. 
Earnest, benignant, calm, as from a breast 
Void of all hate or terror, made them start ; 
For as with gentle accents he addressed 
His speech to them, on each unwilling heart 
Unusual awe did fall — a spirit-quelling dart. 

XV. 

« Ye Princes of the Earth, ye sit aghast 
Amid the ruin which yourselves have made ; 
Yes, desolation heard your trumpet's blast. 
And sprang from sleep ! — dark Terror has obeyed 
Your bidding — Oh that I, whom ye have made 
Your foe, could set my dearest enemy free 
From pain and fear ! but evil casts a shade 
Which cannot pass so soon, and Hate must be 
The nurse and parent still of an ill progeny. 

XVI. 

'< Ye turn to Heaven for aid in your distress ; 
Alas, that ye, the mighty and the wise. 
Who, if he dared, migh not aspire to less 
Than ye conceive of power, should fear the lies 
Which thou, and thou, didst frame for mysteries 
To blind your slaves : — consideryour own thought, 
An empty and a cruel sacrifice 
Ye now prepare, for a vain idol wrought 
Out of the fears and hate which vain desires have 
brought. 



112 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



" Ye seek for happiness — alas the day ! 
Ye find it not in luxury nor in gold, 
Nor in the fame, nor in the envied sway 
For which, O willing slaves to Custom old. 
Severe task-mistress ! ye your hearts have sold. 
Ye seek for peace, and when ye die, to dream 
No evil dreams ; all mortal things are cold 
And senseless then. If aught survive, I deem 
It must be love and joy, for they immortal seem. 

XVIII. 

" Fear not the future, weep not for the past. 
Oh, could I win your ears to dare be now 
Glorious, and great and calm ! that ye would cast 
Into the dust those symbols of your wo, 
Purple, and gold, and steel ! that he would go 
Proclaiming to the nations whence ye came, 
That Want, and Plague, and Fear, from slavery 

flow ; 
And that mankind is free, and that the shame 
Of royalty and faith is lost in freedom's fame. 

XIX. 

« If thus 'tis well — if not, I come to say 

That Laon — ." While the Stranger spoke, among 

The Council sudden tumult and affray 

Arose for many of those warriors young 

Had on his eloquent accents fed and hung 

Like bees on mountain-flowers! they knew the 

truth, 
And from their thrones in vindication sprung; 
The men of faith and law then without ruth 
Drew forth their secret steel, and stabbed each 

ardent youth. 

XX. 

They stabbed them in the back and sneered. A slave 
Who stood behind the throne, those corpses drew 
Each to its bloody, dark, and secret grave ; 
And one more daring raised his steel anew 
To pierce the Stranger : " What hast thou to do 
With me, poor wretch 1" — Calm, solemn, and 

severe. 
That voice unstrung his sinews, and he threw 
His dagger on the ground, and pale with fear, 
Sate silently— his voice then did the Stranger rear. 

XXI. 

"It doth avail not that I weep for ye — 
Ye cannot change, since ye are old and gray, 
And ye have chosen your lot — ^your fame must be 
A book of blood, whence in a milder day 
Men shall learn truth, when ye are wrapt in clay ; 
Now ye shall triumph. I am Laon's friend, 
And him to your revenge will I betray. 
So ye concede one easy boon. Attend ! 
For now I speak ofthings which ye can apprehend. 

XXII. 

« There is a People mighty in its youth, 
A land beyond the Oceans of the West, [Truth 
Where, though with rudest rites. Freedom and 
Are worshipped ; from a glorious mother's breast 
Who, since high Athens fell among the rest 
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in wo, 
By inbred monsters outraged and oppressed, 
Turns to her chainless child for succour now, 
And draws the milk of power in Wisdom's fullest 
flow. 



" This land is like an Eagle, whose young gaze 
Feeds on the noontide beams, whose golden plume 
Floats moveless on the storm, and in the blaze 
Of sunrise gleams when earth is wrapt in gloom ; 
An epitaph of glory for the tomb 
Of murdered Europe may thy fame be made, 
Great People ! As the sands shalt thou become ; 
Thy growth is swift as morn, when nightmust fade; 
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep beneath thy 
shade. 

XXIV. 

" Yes, in the desert then is built a home 
For Freedom. Genius is made strong to rear! 
The monuments of man beneath the dome 
Of a new heaven ; myriads assemble there. 
Whom the proud lords of man, in rage or fear 
Drive from their wasted homes. The boon I pray 
Is this, — that Cythna shall be convoyed there, — 
Nay, start not at the name — America ! 
And then to you this night Laon will I betray. 

XXV. 

« With me do what ye will. I am your foe !" 
The light of such a joy as makes the stare 
Of hungry snakes like living emeralds glow, 
Shone in a hundred human eyes. — "Where, where 
Is Laon 1 haste ! fly ! drag him swiftly here ! 
We grant thy boon." — " I put no trust in ye, 
Swear by the Power ye dread." — « We swear, 

we swear!" 
The Stranger threw his vest back suddenly. 
And smiled in gentle pride, and said, " Lo ! I am he." 

CANTO XIL 

T. 

The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness 
Spread through the multitudmous streets, fast flying 
Upon the winds of fear ; from his dull madness 
The starveling waked, and died in joy ; the dying. 
Among the corpses in stark agony lying. 
Just heard the happy tidings, and in hope [ing 
Closed their faint eyes, from house to house reply- 
With loud acclaim, the living shook Heaven's cope. 

And filled the startled Earth with echoes : mom 
did ope 

II. 
Its pale eyes then ; and lo ! the long array 
Of guards in golden arras, and priests beside 
Singing their bloody hymns, whose garbs betray 
The blackness of the faith it seems to hide ; 
And see, the Tyrant's gem-wrought chariot glide 
Among the gloomy cowls and glittering spears — 
A shape of light is sitting by his side, 
A child most beautiful. I' the midst appears 

Laon — exempt alone from mortal hopes and fears. 
III. 
His head and feet are bare, his hands are bound 
Behind with heavy chains, yet none do wreak 
Their scoffs on him,though myriads throng around ; 
There are no sneers upon his lip which speak 
That scorn or hate has made him bold ; his cheek 
Resolve has not turned pale,' — his eyes are mild 
And calm, and like the mom about to break. 
Smile on mankind — his heart seems reconciled 

To all things and itself, hke a reposing child. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



113 



Tumult was in the soul of all beside, 
III joy, or doubt, or fear ; but those "who saw 
Their tranquil victim pass, felt wonder glide 
Into their brain, and became calm with awe. — 
See, the slow pageant near the pile doth draw. 
A thousand torches in the spacious square, 
Bome by the ready slaves of ruthless law. 
Await the signal round : the morning fair 
Is changed to a dim night by that unnatural glare. 

V. 

And see ! beneath a sun-bright canopy, 
Upon a platform level with the pile. 
The anxious TjTant sit, enthroned on high. 
Girt by the chieftains of the host. All smile 
In expectation, but one child ; the while 
I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier 
Of fire, and look around. Each distant isle 
Is dark in the bright dawn ; towers far and near 
Pierce like reposing flames the tremulous atmo- 
sphere. 

TI. 

There was such silence through the host, as when 
An earthquake, ti-ampling on some populous town 
Has crushed ten thousand with one tread, and men 
Expect the second; all were mute but one. 
That fairest child, who, bold with love, alone 
Stood up before the king, without avail. 
Pleading for Laon's life — ^her stifled groan 
Was heard — she trembled like an aspen pale 
Among the gloomy pines of a Norwegian vale. 

TII. 

What were his thoughts linked in the morning 

sun. 
Among those reptiles, stingless with delay. 
Even like a tyrant's wrath ? — The signal-gun 
Roared — hark, again ! In that dread pause he lay 
As in a quiet dream — the slaves obey^ — • 
A thousand torches drop, — and hark, the last 
Bursts on that a^vful silence. Far away 
Millions, with hearts that beat both loud and fast, 
Watch for the springing flame -expectant and 

aghast. 

VIII. 

They fly — the torches fall — a cry of fear 
Has startled the triumphant ! — they recede ! 
For ero the cannon's roar has died, they hear 
The tramp of hoofs like earthquake, and a steed 
Dark and gigantic, vdth the tempest's speed. 
Bursts through their ranks : a woman sits thereon. 
Fairer it seems than aught that earth can breed. 
Calm, radiant, like the phantom of the dawn, 
A spirit from the caves of daylight wandering gone. 

IX. 

All thought it was God's Angel come to sweep 
The lingering guilty to their fiery grave ; 
The tyrant from his throne in dread did leap, — 
Her innocence his child from fear did save. 
Scared by the faith they feigned,eacli priestly slave 
Knelt for his mercy whom they served with blood, 
And, Uke the refluence of a mighty wave 
Sucking into the loud sea, the multitude 
With crushing panic, fled in terror's altered mood. 
15 



They pause, they blush, they gaze ; a gathering 
shout [streams 

Bmsts like one sound from the ten thousand 
Of a tempestuous sea : — that sudden rout 
One checked, who never in his mildest dreams 
Felt awe from grace or loveliness, the seams 
Of his rent heart so hard and cold a creed 
Had seared with blistering ice — ^but he misdeems 
That he is wise, whose wounds do only bleed 
Inly for self; thus thought the Iberian Priest mdeed. 

XI. 

And others, too, thought he was wise to see, 
In pain, and fear, and hate, something divine ; 
In love and beauty — no divinity. — 
Now with a bitter smile, whose light did shine 
Like a fiend's hope upon his lips and eyne, 
He said, and the persuasion of that sneer 
Rallied his trembling comrades — " Is it mine 
To stand alone, when kings and soldiers fear 
A woman 1 Heaven has sent its other ^'ictim here." 

XII. 

" Were it not impious," said the king, « to break 
Our holy oath 1 ' — " Impious to keep it say !" 
Shrieked the exulting Priest: — ^''Slaves to the 
Bind her, and on my head the burden lay [stake. 
Of her just torments : — at the Judgment Day 
Will I stand up before the golden throne 
Of Heaven, and cry, to thee I did betray 
An infidel ! but for me she would have known 
Another moment's joy ! — the glory be thine own." 

XIII. 

They trembled, but replied not, nor obeyed, 
Pausing in breathless silence. Cythna sprung 
From her gigantic steed, who, like a shade 
Chased by the winds, those vacant streets among 
Fled tameless, as the brazen rein she flung 
Upon his neck, and kissed his mooned brow, 
A piteous sight, that one so fair and young. 
The clasp of such a fearful death should woo 
With smiles of tender joy as beamed from Cythna 
now. 

XIT. 

The warm tears burst in spite of faith and fear, 
From many a tremulous eye, but, like soft dews 
Which feed spring's earliest buds, hung gathered 

there. 
Frozen by doubt, — alas ! they could not choose 
But weep ; for when her faint limbs did refuse 
To climb the pyre, upon the mutes she smiled ; 
And with her eloquent gestures, and the hues 
Of her quick lips, even as a weary child fmild, 
Wms sleep from some fond nurse with its caresses 

XT. 

She won them, though unwilling, her to bind 
Near me, among the snakes. When then had fled 
One soft reproach that was most thrilling kind, 
She smiled on me, and nothing then we said, 
But each upon the other's countenance fed 
Looks of insatiate love ; the mighty veil 
Which doth divide the living and the dead 
Was almost rent, the world grew dim and pale, — 
All light in Heaven or Earth beside our love did 
fail.— 

k2 



114 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Yet, — ^yet — one brief relapse, like the last beam 
Of dying flames, the stainless air around 
Hung silent and serene. — A blood-red gleam 
Burst upwards, hurling fiercely fiom the ground 
The globed smoke. — I heard the mighty sound 
Of its uprise, like a tempestuous ocean ; 
And, through its chasms I saw, as in a swound, 
The Tyrant's child fall without life or motion 
Before his throne, subdued by some unseen emotion. 



And is this death ? The pyre has disappeared, 
The Pestilence, the Tyrant, and the throng ; 
The flames grow silent — ^slowly there is heard 
The music of a breath-suspending song. 
Which, like the kiss of love when life is young. 
Steeps the faint eyes in darkness sweet and deep ; 
With ever-changing notes it floats along. 
Till on my passive soul there seemed to creep 
A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands that leap. 

XTiir. 
The warm touch of a soft and tremulous hand 
Wakened me then ; lo, Cythna sate reclined 
Beside me, on the waved and golden sand 
Of a clear pool, upon a bank o'ertwined [wind 
With strange and star-bright flowers, which to the 
Breathed divine odour ; high above, was spread 
The emerald heaven of trees of unknown kind. 
Whose moonlight blooms and bright fruit overhead 
A shadow, which was light, upon the waters shed. 



And round about sloped many a lawny mountain 
With incense-bearing forests, and vast caves 
Of marble radiance to that mighty fountam ; 
And where the flood its own bright margin laves, 
Their echoes talk with its eternal waves, 
Which, from the depths whose jagged caverns breed 
Their unreposing strife, it lifts and heaves. 
Till through a chasm of hills they roll, and feed 
A river deep, which flies with smooth but arrowy 
speed. 

XX. 

As we sate gazing in a trance of wonder, 
A boat approached, borne by the musical air 
Along the waves, which sung and sparkled under 
Its rapid keel — a winged shape sate there, 
A child with silver-shining wings, so fair. 
That as her bark did through the waters glide. 
The shadow of the lingering waves did wear 
Light, as from starry beams ; from side to side, 
While veering to the wind, her plumes the bark 
did guide. 

IXI. 

The boat was one curved shell of hollow pearl, 
Almost translucent with the light divine 
Of her within ; the prow and stern did curl, 
Horned on high, like the young moon supine, 
When, o'er dim twilight mountains dark with pine, 
It floats upon the sunset's sea of beams, 
Whose golden waves in many a purple line 
Fade fast, till, borne on sunlight's ebbing streams. 
Dilating, on earth's verge the sunken meteor gleams. 



Its keel has struck the sands beside our feet ; — 
Then Cythna turned to me, and from her eyes 
Which swam with unshed tears, a look more sweet 
Than happy love, a wild and glad surprise, 
Glanced as she spake : " Ay, this is Paradise 
And not a dream, and we are all united ! 
Lo, that is mine own child, who, in the guise 
Of madness, came like day to one benighted 
In lonesome woods : my heart is now too well re- 
quited !" 

XXIII. 

And then she wept aloud, and in her amis 
Clasped that bright Shape, less marvellously fair 
Than her own human hues and living charms ; 
Which, as she leaned in passion's silence there, 
Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of the air, 
Which seemed to blush and tremble with delight ; 
The glossy darkness of her streaming hair 
Fell o'er that snowy child, and wrapt from sight 
The fond and long embrace which did their hearts 
unite. 



Then the bright child, the plumed Seraph, came, 
And fixed its blue and beaming eyes on mine. 
And said, " I was disturbed by tremulous shame 
When once we met, yet knew that I was thine 
From the same hour in which thy lips divine 
Kindled a clinging dream within my brain. 
Which ever waked when I might sleep, to twine 
• Thine image with her memory dear — again 
We meet ; exempted now from mortal fear or pain. 

XXV. 

" When the consuming flames had wrapt ye round, 
The hope which I had cherished went away ; 
I fell in agony on the senseless ground. 
And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray 
My mind was gone, when bright, like dawning day, 
The Spectre of the Plague before me flew, 
And breathed upon my lips, and seemed to say, 
' They wait for thee, beloved !' — then I knew 
The death-mark on my breast, and became calm 
anew. 

XXTI. 

" It was the calm of love — for I was dying. 
I saw the black and half-extinguished pyre 
In its own gray and shrunken ashes lying ; 
The pitchy smoke of the departed fire , 
Still hung in many a hollow dome and spire 
Above the towers, like night ; beneath whose shade, 
Awed by the ending of their own desire. 
The armies stood ; a vacancy was made 
In expectation's depth, and so they stood dismayed. 

XXTII. 

" The frightftil silence of that altered mood, 
The tortures of the dying clove alone, 
Till one uprose among the multitude, 
And said — ' The flood of time is rolling on, 
We stand upon its brink, whilst ihey are gone 
To glide in peace down death's mysterious stream. 
Have ye done well ] They moulder flesh and bone, 
Who might have made this life's envenomed dream 
A sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, I deem. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



115 



XXVIII. 

" < These perish as the good and great of yore 
Have perished, and their murderers will repent. 
Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow before 
Yon smoke has faded from the firmament 
Even for this cause, that ye, who must lament 
The death of those that made this world so fair, 
Cannot recall them now ; but then is lent 
To man the wisdom of a high despair. 
When such can die, and he live on and linger here. 

XXIX. 

" ' Ay, ye may fear not now the Pestilence, 
Fr&m fabled hell as by a charm withdrawn ; 
All power and flxith must pass, since calmly hence 
In pain and fire have unbelievers gone ; 
And ye must sadly turn away, and raoan 
In secret, to his home each one returning ; 
And to long ages shall this hour be known ; 
And slowly shall its memory, ever burning. 
Fill this dark night of things with an eternal 
morning- 

XXX. 

« ' For me the woiid has grown too void and cold. 
Since hope pursues immortal destiny 
With steps thus slow — therefore shall ye behold 
How those who love, yet fear not, dare to die; 
Tell to your children this !' then suddenly 
He sheathed a dagger in his heart, and fell ; 
My brain grew dark in death, and yet to me 
There came a murmur from the crowd to tell 
Of deep and mighty change which suddenly befeil. 

xxxr, 

« Then suddenly I stood a winged Thought 
Before the immortal Senate, and the seat 
Of that star-shining spirit, whence is wrought 
The strength of its dominion, good and great, 
The better Genius of this world's estate. 
His realm around one mighty Fane is spread, 
Elysian islands bright and fortunate. 
Calm dwellings of the free and happy dead, 
Where I am seht to lead !" These winged words 
she said, 

XXXII. 

And with the silence of her eloquent smile, 
Bade us embark in her divine canoe ; 
Then at the helm we took our seat, the while 
Above her head those plumes of dazzling hue 
Into the winds"" invisible stream she threw, 
Sitting "beside the prow ; like gossamer. 
On the swiil breath of morn, the vessel flew 
O'er the bright whirlpools of that fountain fair. 
Whose shores receded fast, wliile we seemed lin- 
gering there ; 

XXXIII. 

Till down that mighty stream dark, calm, and fleet. 
Between a chasm of cedar mountains rivcu, [feet 
Chased by the thronging winds, whose viewless 
As swift as twinkling beams, had, under Heaven, 
From woods and waves wild sounds and odours 

driven. 
The boat flew visibly — three nights and days, 
Borne like a cloud through morn, and noon, and 
We sailed along the winding watery ways [even, 
Of the vast stream, a long and labyrintliine maze. 



XXXIV. 

A scene of joy and wonder to behold 
That river's shapes and shadows changing ever, 
Where the broad sunrise filled with deepening gold 
Its whirlpools, where all hues did spread and quiver 
And where melodious falls did burst and shiver 
Amongrocks clad with flowers, the foam and spray 
Sparkled like stars upon the sunny river. 
Or when the moonlight poured a hoher day, [lay. 
One vast and glittering lake around green islands 

XXXV. 

Morn, noon, and even, that boat of pearl outran 
The streams which bore it, like the arrowy cloud, 
Of tempest, or the speedier thought of man. 
Which flieth forth and cannot make abode ; [glode, 
Sometimes through forests, deep like night, we 
Between the walls of mighty mountains crowned 
With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets proud, 
The homes of the departed, dimly firowned 
O'er the bright waves which girt their dark foun- 
dations round. 

XXXTI. 

Sometimes between the wide and flowering mea- 
Mile after mile we sailed, and 'twas dehght [dows, 
To see far off the sunbeams chase the shadows 
Over the grass ; sometimes beneath the night 
Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs were bright 
With starry gems, we fled, whilst from their deep 
And dark green chasms, shades beautiful and white, 
Amid sweet sounds across our path would sweep 
Like switl and lovely dreams that walk the waves 
of sleep. 

XXXVII. 

And ever as we sailed, our minds were full 
Of love and wisdom, which would overflow 
In converse wild, and sweet, and wonderful ; 
And in quick smiles whose hght would come and 
Like music o'er wide waves, and in the flow [go, 
Of sudden tears, and in the mute caress — 
For a deep shade was cleft, and we did know, 
That virtue, though obscured on Earth, not less 

Sur\ives all mortal change in lasting loveliness. 
xxxvrii. 
Three days and nights we sailed, as thought and 

feeling 
Number delightful hours — for through the sky 
The sphered lamps of day and night, revealing 
New changes and new glories, rolled on high, 
Sun, Moon, and moonlike lamps, the progeny 
Of a diviner Heaven, serene and fair: 
On the fourth day, wild as a vrind-wrought sea, 
The stream became, and fast and faster bare 

The spirit-winged boat, steadily speeding there. 

XXXIX. 

Steadily and swift, where the waves rolled like 

mountains 
Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did pour 
Tumultuous floods from their ten thousand foun- 
The thunder of whose eartli-uplifting roar [tains. 
Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from the shore, 
Calm as a shade, the boat of that f lir child 
Securely fled, that rapid stress before. 
Amid the topmost spray, and sunbows wild. 
Wreathed in the silver mist : in joy and pride we 

smiled. 



116 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



The torrent of that wide and raging river 
Is passed, and our aerial speed suspended. 
We look behind ; a golden mist did quiver 
When its wild surges with the lake were blended ; 
Our bark hung there, as one line suspended 
Between two heavens, that windless waveless lake ; 
Which four great cataracts from four vales, attended 
By mists, aye feed, from rocks and clouds they 
break. 
And of that azure sea a silent refuge make. 



Motionless resting on the lake awhile, 
I saw its marge of snow-bright mountains rear 
Their peaks aloft, I saw each radiant isle, 
And in the midst, afar, even like a sphere 
Hung in one hollow sky, did there appear 
The Temple of the Spirit ; on the sound 
Which issued thence, drawn nearer and more near, 
Like the swift moon this glorious earth around. 
The charmed boat approached, and there its haven 
found. 



NOTE ON THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



Shellet possessed two remarkable qualities of 
intellect — a brilliant imagination and a logical 
exactness of reason. His inclinations led hun (he 
fancied) almost alike to poetry and metaphysical 
discussions. I say "he fancied," because I believe 
the former to have been paramount, and that it 
would have gained the mastery even had he 
struggled against it. However, he said that he 
deliberated at one time whether he should dedicate 
liimself to poetry or metaphysics, and resolving on 
the former, he educated himself for it, discarding 
in a great measure his philosophical pursuits, and 
engaging himself in the study of the poets of 
Greece, Italy, and England. To these may be 
added a constant perusal of portions of the Old 
Testament — the Psalms, the book of Job, the 
Prophet Isaiah, and others, the sublime poetry of 
which filled him with dehght. 

As a poet, his intellect and compositions were 
powerfully influenced by exterior circumstances, 
and especially by his place of abode. He was 
very fond of travelling, and ill health increased 
this restlessness. The snfierings occasioned by a 
cold English winter, made him pine, especially when 
our colder spring arrived, for a more genial climate. 
In 1816 he again visited Switzerland, and rented 
a house on the banks of the lake of Geneva ; and 
many a day, in cloud or simshine, was passed alone 
in his boat — sailing as the wind listed, or weltering 
on the calm waters. The majestic aspect of nature 
ministered such thoughts as he afterwards enwove 
in verse. His lines on the Bridge of the Arve, 
and his Hymn to Intellectual beauty, were vnitten 
at this time. Perhaps during this summer liis 
genius was checked by association with another 
poet whose nature was utterly dissimilar to his 
own, yet who, in the poem he wrote at that time, 
gave tokens that he shared for a period the more 



abstract and etherialized inspiration of Shelley. 
The saddest events awaited his return to England ; 
but such was his fear to wound the feelings of 
others, that he never expressed the anguish he felt, 
and seldom gave vent to the indignation roused by 
the persecutions he underwent ; while the course 
of deep unexpressed passion, and the sense of in- 
jury, engendered the desire to embody themselves 
in forms defecated of all the weakness and evil 
which ciing to real life. 

He chose therefore for his hero a youth nourished 
in dreams of liberty, some of whose actions are in 
direct opposition to the opinions of the world ; but 
who is animated throughout by an ardent love of 
virtue, and a resolution to confer the boons of 
political and intellectual freedom on his fellow- 
creatures. He created for this youth a woman 
such as he delighted to imagine — full of enthusiasm 
for the same objects ; and they both, with will un- 
vanquished and the deepest sense of the justice of 
their cause, met adversity and death. There exists 
in this poem a memorial of a friend of his youth. 
The character of the old man who liberates Laon 
from his tower-prison, and tends on him in sick- 
ness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when 
Shelley was at Eton, had often stood by to befriend 
and support him, and whose name he never men- 
tioned without love ajid veneration. 

During the year 1817, we were established at 
Marlow, in Bucldnghamshire. Shelley's choice of 
abode was fixed cliiefly by this town being at no 
great distance from London, and its neighbourhood 
to the Thames. The poem was written m his boat, 
as it floated under the beech groves of Bisham, or 
during wanderings in the neighbouring country, 
which is distinguished for peculiar beauty. The 
chalk liills break into cliffs that overhang the 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



117 



Thames, or form valleys clothed with beech ; the 
wilder portion of the country is rendered beautiful 
by exuberant vegetation ; and the cultivated part 
is peculiarly fertile. With all this wealth of nature 
which, either in the form of gentlemen's parks or 
soil dedicated to agriculture, flourishes around, 
Marlow was inhabited (I hope it is altered now) 
by a very poor population. The women are lace- 
makers, and lose their health by sedentary labour, 
for which they were very ill paid. The poor-laws 
ground to the dust not only the paupers, but those 
who had risen just above that state, and were 
obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes produced 
by peace followmg a long war, and a bad harvest, 
brought with them the most heart-rending evils 
to the poor. Shelley afforded what alleviation he 
could. In the winter, while bringing out his poem, 
he had a severe attack of ophthalmia, caught while 
visiting the poor cottages. I mention these things, 
— for this minute and active sympathy with his 
fellow-creatures gives a thousand-fold interest to 
his speculations, and stamps with reality his 
pleadings for the human race. 

The poem, bold in its opinions and uncompro- 
mising in their expression, met with many cen- 
surers, not only among those who allow of no vir- 
tue but such as supports the cause they espouse, 
but even among those whose opinions were similar 
to his own, I extract a portion of a letter written 
in answer to one of these friends ; it best details 
the impulses of Shelley's mind and liis motives : it 
was written with entire unreserve ; and is there- 
fore a precious monument of his own opinion of 
his powers, of the purity of his designs, and the 
ardour with which he clung, in adversity and 
through the valley of the shadow of death, to views 
from wliich he believed the permanent happiness 
of mankind must eventually spring. 

"Marlow, Dec. 11, 1817. 
" I have read and considered all that you say 
about my general powers, and the particular in- 
stance of the Poem in which I have attempted to 
develope them. Nothing can be more satisfactory 
to me than the interest which your admonitions 
express. But I think you are mistaken in some 
points with regard to the peculiar nature of my 
powers, whatever be their amount I listened with 
deference and self-suspicion to your censures of 
' the Revolt of Islam ;' but the productions of mine 
which you commend hold a very low place in my 



own esteem ; and this reassured me, in some de- 
gree at least. The poem was produced by a series 
of thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded 
and sustained enthusiasm. I felt the precarious- 
ness of my life, and I engaged in this task, resolved 
to leave some record of myself. Much of what 
the volume contains was written with the same 
feeling, as real, though not so prophetic, as the 
communications of a dying man. I never pre- 
sumed indeed to consider it any thing approaching 
to faultless; but when I consider contemporary 
productions of the same apparent pretensions, I 
own I was filled with confidence. I felt that it 
was in many respects a genuine picture of my 
own mind. I felt that the sentiments were true, 
not assumed. And in this have I long believed 
that my power consists; in sympathy and that 
part of the imagination which relates to sentiment 
and contemplation. I am formed, if for any thing 
not in common with the herd of mankind, to ap- 
prehend minute and remote distinctions of feeling, 
whether relative to external nature or the living 
beings which surround us, and to communicate the 
conceptions which result from considering either 
the moral or the material universe as a whole. Of 
course, I believe these faculties, which perhaps 
comprehend all that is sublime in man, to exist 
very imperfectly in my own mind. But when you 
advert to my chancery paper, a cold, forced, unim- 
passioned, insignificant piece of cramped and cau- 
tious argument; and to the little scrap about 
Mande\ille, which expressed my feelings indeed, 
but cost scarcely two minutes' thought to express, 
as specimens of my powers, more favourable than 
that which grew as it were from ' the agony and 
bloody sweat' of intellectual travail ; surely I must 
feel that in some manner, either I am mistaken in 
believing that I have any talent at all, or you in 
the selection of the specimens of it. 

«Yet after all, I cannot but be conscious in 
much of what I write, of an absence of that tran- 
quillity which is the attribute and accompaniment 
of power. This feeling alone would make your 
most kind and wise admonitions, on the subject of 
the economy of intellectual force, valuable to me. 
And if I hve, or if I see any trust in coming years, 
doubt not but that I shall do something, whatever 
it may be, which a serious and earnest estimate of 
my powers will suggest to me, and which will be 
in every respect accommodated to their utmost 
limits." 



END OP THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Jj 



PEOMETHEUS UNBOUND 

^ Cnrical ?IDramtT, 

IN FOUR ACTS. 
Audisne hisc Aniphiarae, sub terrain abdite ? 



PREFACE. 

The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their 
subject any portion of tlieir national history or 
mythology, employed in their treatment o-f it a 
certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means 
conceived themselves bound to adhere to the com- 
mon interpretation, or to imitate in story, as in 
title, their rivals and predecessors. Such a system 
would have amounted to a resignation of those 
claims to preference over their competitors which 
incited the composition. The Agamemnonian 
story was exhibited on the Atlienian theatre with 
as many variations as dramas. 

I have presumed to employ a similar license. 
The " Prometheus Unbound" of ^schylus sup- 
posed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim 
as the price of the disclosure of the danger threat- 
ened to his empire by the consummation of his 
marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to this 
view of the subject, was given in marriage to Pe- 
leus, and Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, 
delivered from his captivity by Hercules. Had I 
framed my storj" on this model, I should have 
done no more than have attempted to restore the 
lost drama of J3schylus ; an ambition, which, if 
my preference to this mode of treating the subject 
had incited me to cherish, tlie recollection of the 
high comparison such an attempt would challenge 
might well abate. But, in truth, I was averse 
from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling 
the Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. 
The moral interest of the fable, wliich is so pow- 
erfully sustained bjr the sufferings and endurance 
of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could 
conceive of him as unsaying his high language 
and quailing before his successful and perfidious 
adversary. The only imaginary being resembling 
in any degree Prometheus, is Satan : and Prome- 
theus is, in my judgment, a more poetical charac- 
ter than Satan, because, in addition to courage, 
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to 
omnipotent force, he is susceptible of being de- 
scribed as exempt from the taints of ambition, 
envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggran- 
dizement, which, in the Hero of Paradise Lost, in- 
terfere wath the interest. Tlie character of Satan 
engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry which 
leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and 
to excuse the former because the latter exceed all 
(118) 



measure. In the minds of those who- consider that 
magnificent fiction, with a religious feeling, it en- 
genders something worse. But Prometheus is, as 
it were, the type of the highest perfection cf moral 
and intellectual nature, impelled by the purest and 
the truest motives to the best and noblest ends. 

Tliis Poem was chiefly written upon the moun- 
tainous ruins of the Baths of C'aracalla, among the 
flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossom- 
ing trees, which are extended in ever-winding 
labyrinths upon its immense platforms and dizzy 
arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky 
of Rome, and the effect cf the vigorous awakening 
of spring hi that divinest clunate, and the new life 
with which it drenches the spirits even to intoxi- 
cation, were die mspiration of this drama. 

The imageiy which I have employed will be 
found, in many instances, to have been drawn 
from the operations of the human mind, or from 
those external actions by which they are expressed. 
This is unusual in modern poetry, although Dante 
and Shakspeare are full of uistances of the same 
kind : Dante indeed more than any other poet, and 
with greater success. But the Greek poets, as 
writers to whom no resource of awakening the 
sympathy of tlieir contemporaries was unknown, 
were in the habitual use of this power ; and it is 
the study of their works (since a higher merit 
would probably be denied me) to which I am will- 
ing that my readers should impute this singularity. 

One word is due in candour to the degree in 
which the study of contcniperary writings may 
have tinged my composition, for such has been a 
topic of censure with regard to poems far more 
popular, and, indeed, more deservedly popular, 
than mine. It is impossible that ah)"^ one who 
inhabits the same age with such writers as those 
wdio stand in the foremost ranks of our own, can 
conscientiously assure hunself that his language 
and tone of thought may not have been modified 
by the study of the productions of those extraordi- 
nary intellects. It is true, that, not the spirit of 
tlieir genius, but the forms in which it has mani- 
fested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their 
own minds than to the peculiarity of the moral 
and intellectual condition of the minds among 
which they have been produced. Thus a number 
of writers possess the form, whilst they want the 
spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate ; 
because the former is the endowment of the age in 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



119 



which they live, and the latter must be the un- 
communicated lightning of their own mind. 

The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive 
imagery which distinguishes the moJern literature 
of England, has not been, as a general power, the 
product of the imitation of any particular writer. 
The mass of capabilities remains at every period 
materially the same; the circumstances which 
awaken it to action perpetually change. If Eng- 
land were divided into forty republics, each equal 
in population and extent to Athens, there is no 
reason to suppose but that, under institutions not 
more perfect than those of Athens, each would 
produce philosophers and poets equal to tliose who 
df we except Shakspeare) have never been sur- 
passed. We owe the great writers of the golden 
age of our literature to that fervid awakening of 
the public mind which shook to dust the oldest 
and most oppressive form of the Christian religion. 
We owe Milton to the progress and developement 
of the same spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it 
ever be remembered, a republican, and a bold in- 
quirer into morals and religion. The great writers 
of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, 
the companions and forerunners of some unim- 
agined change in our social condition, or the opi- 
nions which cement it. The cloud of mind is 
discharging its collected lightning, and the equi- 
librium between institutions and opinions is now 
restoring, or is about to be restored. 

As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It 
creates, but it creates by combination and repre- 
sentation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful and 
new, not because the portions of which they are 
composed had no previous existence in the mind 
of man, or in nature, but because the whole pro- 
duced by their combination has some intelligible 
and beautiful analogy with those sources of emo- 
tion and thought, and with the contemporary con- 
dition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of 
nature, which another not only ought to study but 
must study. He might as wisely and as easily 
determine that his mind should no longer be the 
mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe, 
as exclude from his conteinplation the beautiful 
which exists in the writings of a great contempo- 
rary. The pretence of doing it would be a pre- 
sumption in any but the greatest ; the effect, even 
in him, would be strained, umiatural, and ineffect- 
ual. A poet is the combined product of such in- 
ternal powers as modify the nature of others ; and 
of such external influences as excite and sustain 
these powers; he is not one, but both. Every 
man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the 
objects of nature and art ; by every word and every 
suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his 



consciousness ; it is the mirror upon which all 
forms are reflected, and in which they compose one 
form. Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, 
painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, 
the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their 
age. From this subjection the loftiest do not 
escape. There is a similarity between Homer and 
Hesiod, between ^-Eschylus and Euripedes, between 
Virgil and Horace, between Dante and Petrarch, 
between Shakspeare and Fletcher, between Dry- 
den and Pope; each has a generic resemblance 
under which their specific distinctions are arranged. 
If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am 
willing to confess that I have imitated. 

Let this opportunity be conceded to me of ac- 
knowledging that I have, what a Scotch philosopher 
characteristically terms, " a passion for reforming 
the world:" what passion incited him to write and 
pubhsh his book, he omits to explain. For my 
part, I had rather be damned with Plato and Lord 
Bacon, than go to heaven with Paley and Malthus. 
But it is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my 
poetical compositions solely to the direct enforce- 
ment of reform, or that I consider them in any de- 
gree as containing a reasoned system on the theory 
of human life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence ; 
nothing can be equally well expressed in prose 
that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. 
My puri^ose has hitherto been simply to famiharize 
the highly refined imagination of the more select 
classes of poetical readers with beautiful idealisms 
of moral excellence; aware that until the mind 
can love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and en- 
dure, reasoned principles of moral conduct are 
seeds cast upon the highway of life, which the un- 
conscious passenger tramples into dust, although 
they would bear the harvest of his happiness. 
Should I live to accomplish what I purpose, that is, 
produce a systematical history of what appear to me 
to be the genuine elements of human society, let not 
the advocates of injustice and superstition flatter 
themselves that I should take .^ilschylus rather 
than Plato as my model. 

The having spoken of myself with unaffected 
freedom will need little apology with the candid; 
and let the uncandid consider that they injure me 
less than their own hearts and minds by misrepre- 
sentation. Whatever talents a person may pos- 
sess to amuse and instruct others, be they ever so 
inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if 
his attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of 
an unaccomplished purpose have been sufficient; 
let none trouble themselves to heap the dust of 
oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will 
betray his grave, which might otherwise have been 
unknown. 



120 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^]. 



Prometheus. 

Demogorgon. 

Jupiter. 

The Earth. 

Ocean. 

ApoLto. 

Mercurt. 

Hercules. 



Asia, ^ 

Panthea, V Oceanides. 

loNE, ) 

The Phantasm op Jupiter. 
The Spirit of the Earth. 
The Spirit of the Moon. 
Spirits of the Hours. 
Spirits. Echoes. Fauns. 
Furies. 



ACT I. 



Scene, a Ravine of ky HocJts in the Indian Ca7icasus. 
Prometheus is discovered bound to the Precipice. 
Panthea aytd Ione are seated at his feet. Time, 
JVight. During the Scene, Morning slowbj breaks. 

PROMETHEtTS. 

Monarch of Gods and Domions, and all Spirits 
But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds 
Which Thou and I alone of Uving things 
Behold with sleepless eyes ! regard this Earth 
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou 
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise. 
And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts, 
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope. 
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate, 
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to tliy scorn, 
O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge. 
Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours, 
And moments aye divided by keen pangs 
Till they seemed years, torture and solitude. 
Scorn and despair, — these are mine empire. 
More glorious lar than that vv-hich thou surveyest 
From thine unenvied throne, O, Mighty God ! 
Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame 
Of tliine ill tyTanny, and hung not here 
Nailed to this wall of eagle-bafHing mountain, 
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured ; without herb. 
Insect, or beast, or shape, or sound of hfe. 
Ah me, alas ! pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

No change, no pause, no hope ! Yet I endure. 
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt 1 
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, 
Has it not seen ] The Sea, in storm or calm. 
Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below, 
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony ' 
Ah me ! alus, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears 
Of their moon-freezing cr^-stals ; the bright chains 
Eat with their burning cold into my bones. 
Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy Ups 
His beak in poison not his own, tears up 
M)^ heart ; and shapeless sights come wandering by, 
The ghastly people of the realm of dream. 
Mocking me : and the Earthquake-fiends are charged 



To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds 
When the rocks split and close again behind : 
While from their loud abysses howling tlirong 
The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. 
And yet to me welcome is day and night, 
Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn, 
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs 
The leaden-coloured east ; for then they lead 
The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom 
— As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim — 
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood 
From these pale feet, which then might trample thee 
If they disdained not such a prostrate slave. 
Disd;un ! Ah no ! I pity thee. What ruin 
Will hunt thee undefended through tlie wide 

Heaven ! 
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, 
Gape like a hell within ! I speak in grief, 
Not exultation, for I hate no more, 
As then ere misery made me wise. The curse 
Once breathed on tliee I would recall. Ye 

Mountains, 
Whose many-voiced Echoes, through the mist 
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell I 
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost, 
Which \'ibratcd to hear me, and then crept 
Shuddering tJirough India ! Thou serenest Air, 
Through which the Sun walks burning without 

beams ! 
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised wings 
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss. 
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock 
The orbed world ! If then my words had ])ower, 
Though I am changed so that aught evil wish 
Is dead within ; although no memory be 
Of what is hate, kt them not lose it now ! 
What was that curse ] for ye all heard me speak. 

FIRST voice: (from the mountains.^ 
Thrice tliree hundred thousand years 

O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood: 
Oft. as men convulsed with fears. 

We trembled in our multitude. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



121 



SECOND voice: {from the springs.) 
Thunderbolts had parched our water, 

We had been stained with bitter blood, 
And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaughter, 

Through a city and a solitude. 

THIRD VOICE : {from the air ^ 
I had clothed, since Earth uprose. 

Its wastes in colours not their own ; 
And oft had my serene repose 

Been cloven by many a rending groan. 

FOURTH voice: {from the whirlwinds^ 
We had soared beneath these mountains 

Unresting ages ; nor had thunder, 
Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, 

Nor any power above or under 

Ever made us mute with wonder. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But never bowed our snowy crest 
As at the voice of thine unrest. 

SECOND VOICE. 

Never such a sound before 
To the Indian waves we bore. 
A pilot asleep on the howling sea 
Leaped up from the deck in agony, 
And heard, and cried, " Ah, wo is me !" 
And died as mad as the wild waves be. 

THIRD VOICE. 

By such dread words from Earth to Heaven 
My still realm was never riven : 
When its wound was closed, there stood 
Darkness o'er the day like blood. 

FOURTH VOICE. 

And we shrank back : for dreams of ruin 
To frozen caves our flight pursuing 
Made us keep silence — thus — and thus — 
Though silence is as hell to us. 

THE EARTH. 

The tongueless Caverns of the craggy hills 
Cried, " Misery !" then ; the hollow Heaven replied, 
" Misery !" And the Ocean's purple waves. 
Climbing the land, howled to the lashing winds. 
And the pale nations heard it, " Misery !" 

PROMETHEUS. 

I hear a sound of voices: not the voice 
Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thou 
Scorn him, without whose all-enduring vcill 
Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, 
Both they and thou had vanished, like thin mist 
Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me. 
The Titan 1 He who made his agony 
The barrier to your else all-conquering foe 1 
Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, 
Now seen athwart frore vapours, deep below. 
Through whose o'ershadowing woods I wandered 
With Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes ; [once 
Why scorns the spirit which informs ye now 
To commune with me 1 me alone, who checked, 
As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer, 
Tlie filsehood and the force of him who reigns 
Supreme, and with the groans of pining slaves 
Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses: 
Why answer ye not, still 1 Brethren ! 
16 



THE EARTH. 

They dare not. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who dares ? for I would hear that curse again. 

Ha ! what an awful whisper rises up ! 

'Tis scarce like sound : it tingles through the frame 

As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike. 

Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic voice 

I only know that thou art moving near 

And love. How cursed I him 1 

THE EARTH. 

How canst thou hear, 
Who knowest not the language of the dead 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou art a living spirit ; speak as they. 

THE EARTH. 

I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's fell King 
Should hear, and link me to some wheel of pain 
More torturing than the one whereon I roll. 
Subtle thou art and good ; and though the Gods 
Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than God 
Being wise and kind : earnestly hearken now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim. 
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel 
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love; 
Yet 'tis not pleasure. 

THE EARTH. 

No, thou canst not hear : 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known 
Only to those who die. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And what art thou, 
melancholy Voice ] 

THE EARTH. 

I am the Earth, 
Thy mother ; she within whose stony veins. 
To the last fibre of the loftiest tree 
Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, 
Joy ran as blood within a living frame. 
When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud 
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 
And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted 
Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust, 
And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread 
Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee here. 
Then^see those million worlds which bum and roll 
Around us : their inhabitants beheld 
My sphered light wane in wide Heaven ; the sea 
Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire 
From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow 
Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's fi-own ; 
Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains ; 
Blue thistles bloomed in cities ; foodless toads 
Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled ; 
When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and 

worm. 
And Famine ; and black blight on herb and tree ; 
And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass, 
Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds 
Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry 



122 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



With grief; and the thin air, my breath, was stained 
With the contagion of a mother's hate 
Breathed on her child's destrojer ; ay, I heard 
Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not. 
Yet my innumerable seas and streams. 
Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, 
And the inarticulate people of the dead. 
Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate 
In secret joy and hope those dreadful words 
But dare not speak them. 



PHOMETHEUS. 



Venerable mother ! 
All else who Hve and suffer take from thee 
Some comfort ; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds, 
And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine. 
But mhie own words, I pray, deny me not. 

THE EAHTH. 

They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, 

The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child. 

Met his own image walking in the garden. 

That apparition, sole of men, he saw. 

For know there are two worlds of life and death: 

One that which thou behold est; but the other 

Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit 

The shadows of all forms that think and live 

Till death unite them and they part no more ; 

Dreams and the light imaginings of men, 

And all that faith creates or love desires. 

Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes. 

There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade, 

'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains ; all the gods 

Arc there, and all the powers of nameless worlds, 

Vast, sceptred phantoms ; heroes, men, and beasts ; 

And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom ; 

And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne 

Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter 

The curse which all remember. Call at will 

Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 

Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods 

From all-prolific E\'il, since thy ruin 

Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons. 

Ask, and they must reply : so the revenge 

Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades, 

As rainy wind through the abandoned gate 

Of a fallen palace. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Mother, let not aught 
Of that which may be evil, pass again 
My lips, or those of aught resembling me. 
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear ! 

lONE. 

My wings are folded o'er mine ears : 

My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes : 
Yet through their silver shade appears. 

And through their lulling plumes arise, 
A Shape, a throng of sounds ; 

May it be no ill to thee 
thou of many wounds ! 
Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, 
Ever thus we watch and wake. 

PANTHEA. 

The sound is of whirlwind underground, 

Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; 



The shape is avdul like the sound, 

Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. 
A sceptre of pale gold 

To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud 
His veined hand doth hold. 
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong. 
Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 

PHANTASM OF JUPITEH. 

Why have the secret powers of this strange world 
Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither 
On direst storms ? What unaccustomed sounds 
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice 
With which our pallid race hold ghastly talk 
In darkness 1 And, proud sufferer, who art thou 1 

PHOMETHEUS. 

Tremendous Image ! as thou art must be 
He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe. 
The Titan. Speak the words wliich I would hear, 
Although no thought inform thine empty voice. 

THE EiRTH. 

Listen ! And though your echoes must be mute, 
Gray mountains, and old woods, and havuited 

springs. 
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, 
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A spirit seizes me and speaks within : 
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA. 

See, how he lifls his mighty looks, the Heaven 
Darkens above. 

lONE. 

He speaks ! O shelter me ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I see the curse on gestures proud and cold, 
And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate. 
And such despair as mocks itself with smiles. 
Written as on a scroll : yet speak : Oh, speak ! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm, fixed mind. 
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do ; 

Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human-kind, 
One only being slialt thou not subdue. 

Rain then thy plagues upon me here. 

Ghastly disease and fi'cnzying fear ; 

And let alternate fi-ost and fire 

Eat into me, and be thine ire 
Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned forms 
Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms. 

Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent. 

O'er all things but thyself I gave thee power, 
And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent 

To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower. 
Let thy malignant spirit move 
In darkness over those I love ; 
On me and mine I imprecate 
The utmost torture of thy hate ; 
And thvis devote to sleepless agony. 
This undechning head while thou must reign on 
high. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



123 



But thou who art the God and Lord : 0, thou 

Who fillest witli thy soul this world of wo, 

To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow 

In fear and worship : all-prevailing foe ! 
I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 
Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse! 
Till thine Infinity shall be 
A robe of envenomed agony ; 
And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain. 
To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving 
brain. 

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this curse, 
111 deeds, then be thou damned, beholding 



Both infinite as is the universe, 

And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude 
An awful image of calm power 
Though now thou sittest, let the hour 
Come, when thou must appear to be 
That which thou art internally. 
And after many a false and fruitless crime, 
Scom track thy lagging fall tlirough boundless 
space and time. 

PBOMETHEUS. 

Were these my words, O Parent 1 

THE EAKTH. 

They were thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It doth repent me : words are quick and vain ; 
Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine. 
I wish no Ii\'ing thing to suffer pain. 

THE EARTH. 

Misery, Oh misery to me. 
That Jove at length should vanquish thee, 
Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea, 
The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye. 
Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead. 
Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and van- 
quished. 

FIRST ECHO. 

Lies fallen and vanquished ] 

SECOND ECHO. 

Fallen and vanquished ! 

lONE. 

Fear not : 'tis but some passing spasm, 

The Titan is unvanquished still. 
But see where through the azure chasm 

Of yon forked and showy hill 
Trampling the slant winds on high 

With golden-sandalled feet, that glow 
Under plumes of purple dye. 
Like rose-ensanguined ivory, 

A Shape comes now, 
Stretching on high from his right hand 
A serpent cinctured wand. 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Merciu-y. 

lONE. 

And who are those with hydra tresses 
And iron wings that climb the wind. 



Whom the frowning God represses 

Like vapours steaming up behind, 
Clanging loud, an endless crowd — 

PANTHEA. 

These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds, 
Whom he gluts with groans and blood, 
When charioted on sulphurous cloud 

He bursts from Heaven's bounds. 

lONE. 

Are they now led, fi'om the tliiii dead 
On new pangs to be fed 1 

PAITTHEA. 

The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. 

FIRST FURY. 

Ha ! I scent life ! 

SECOND PITRT. 

Let me but look into his eyes ! 

THIRD FURT. 

The hope of torturing him smells like a heap 
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. 

FIRST FURT. 

Barest thou delay, O Herald ! take cheer', Hounds 
Of Hell ! what if the Son of Maia soon 
Should make us food and sport — who can please long 
The Omnipotent 1 

MERCURY. 

Back to your towers of iron, 
And gnash beside the streams of fire, and wail 
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise ! and Gorgon, 
Chimsera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of fiends. 
Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's poisoned wine, 
Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate : 
These shall perform your task. 

FIRST FURY. 

Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 
We die with our desire : drive us not back ! 

MERCURY. 

Crouch then in silence. 

Awful Sufferer; 
To thee unwilling, most unwillingly 
I come, by the Great Father's will driven down, 
To execute a doom of new revenge. 
Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 
That I can do no more ; aye from thy sight 
Returning, for a season, heaven seems hell, 
So thy worn form pursues me night and day. 
Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good, 
But vainly vvouldst stand forth alone in strife 
Against the Omnipotent ; as yon clear lamps 
That measure and divide the weary years 
From which there is no refuge, long have taught. 
And long must teach. Even now thy Torturer 

arms 
With the strange might of unimagined pains 
The powers who scheme slow agonies in Hell, 
And my commission is to lead tliem here. 
Or what more subtle, foul or savage fiends 
People the abyss, and leave them to their task. 
Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
To thee, and to none else of liAong things. 



124 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven, 
The fear of which perplexes the supreme ; 
Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his throne 
In intercession ; bend thy soul in prayer, 
And hke a suppliant in some gorgeous fane, 
Let the will kneel within thy haughty heart : 
For benefits and meek submission tame 
The fiercest and the mightiest. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Evil minds 
Change good to their own nature. I gave all 
He has ; and in return he chains me here 
Years, ages, night and day ; whether the Sun 
Split my parched skin, or in the moony night 
The crystal-winged snow cling round my hair : 
Whilst my beloved race is trampled down 
By his thought-executing ministers. 
Such is the tyrant's recompense : 'tis just : 
He who is evil can receive no good ; 
And for a world bestowed, or a friend lost, 
He can feel hate, fear, shame ; not gratitude : 
He but requites me for his own misdeed. 
Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks 
Wilh bitter stings the light sleep of Revenge. 
Submission, thou dost know I cannot try ; 
For what submission but that fatal word. 
The death-seal of mankind's captivity, 
Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword. 
Which trembles o'er his crown, would he accept, 
Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not yield. 
Let others flatter Crime, where it sits throned 
In brief Omnipotence ; secure are they : 
For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down 
Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs, 
Too much avenged by those who err. I wait, 
Enduring thus, the retributive hour 
Which since we spake is even nearer now. 
But hark, the hellhounds clamo\ir. Fear delay ! 
Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown. 

WETICURT. 

Oh, that we might be spared : I to inflict. 
And thou to suffer ! once more answer me : 
Thou knowest not the period of Jove's power ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I know but this, that it must come. 

MERCURY. 

Alas! 
Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

They last while Jove must reign ; nor more, nor less 
Do I desire or fear. 

MERCURT. 

Yet pause and plunge 
Into Eternity, where recorded time. 
Even all that we imagine, age on age, 
Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind 
Flags, wearily in its unending flight 
Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless ; 
Perchance it has not numbered the slow years 
Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass. 



MERCUBT. 

If thou might'st dwell among the gods the while, 
Lapped in voluptuous joy 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

I would not quit 
This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pams. 

MERCURY. 

Alas ! I wonder at, yet pity thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven, 
Not me, within whose mind sits peace serene, 
As light in the sun, throned : how vain is talk ! 
Call up the fiends. 

lONE. 

O, sister, look ! White fire 
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar ; 
How fearfully God's thunder howls behind ! 

MERCURY. 

I must obey his words and thine : alas ! 
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart ! 

PAXTHEA. 

See where the child of Heaven, with winged feet, 
Rmis down the slanted sunhght of the dawn, 

lONE. 

Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine eyes 
Lest thou behold and die : they come : they come 
Blackening the birth of day with countless wings, 
And hollow underneath, like death. 



FIRST FURY. 



SECOND FURY. 



Prometheus ! 



Immortal Titan ! 



THIRD FURY. 

Champion of Heaven's slaves ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

He whom some dreadhd voice invokes, is here, 
Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, 
What and who are ye ] Never yet there came 
Phantasms so foul through monster teaming Hell 
From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; 
Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, 
Methinks I grow like what I contemplate. 
And laugh and stare in loathsome sympathy. 

FIRST FURY. 

We are the ministers of pain and fear, 
And disappointment, and mistrust, and hate. 
And clinging crime ; and as lean dogs pursue 
Through wood and lake some struck and sobbing 

fawn. 
We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live, 
When the great King betrays them to our will. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh ! many fearful natures in one name, 
I know ye ; and these lakes and echoes know 
The darkness and the clangour of your wings. 
But why more hideous than your loathed selves 
Gather ye up in legions from the deep 1 

SECOND FURY. 

We knew not that ; Sisters, rejoice, rejoice ! 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



125 



PnOMETHF.US. 

Can aught exult in its deformity 1 

SECOND FURY. 

The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, 

Gazing on one another : so are we, 

As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels 

To gather for her festal crown of flowers 

The aerial crimson falls, flushing her cheek, 

So from our victim's destined agony 

The shade which is our form invests us round, 

Else we are shapeless as our mother Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I laugh your power, and his who sent you here. 
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain. 

FIRST fuht. 
Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone, 
And nerve from nerve, working like lire within 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pain is my element, as hate is thine ; 
Ye rend me now ; I care not. 

SECOND rURT. 

Dost imagine 
We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

I weigh not what ye do, but what ye sufTer, 
Being evil. Cruel was the power which called 
You, or aught else so wretched, into light. 

THIRD FURT. 

Thou think'st we will live through thee, one by one. 
Like animal life, and though we can obscure not 
The soul which burns within, that we will dwell 
Beside it, like a vain loud multitude 
Vexing the self-content of wisest men : 
That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain, 
And foul desire round thine astonished heart. 
And blood within thy labyrinthme veins 
Crawling like agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why, ye are thus now ; 
Yet am I king over myself, and rule 
The torturing and conflicting throngs within, 
As Jove rules you when Hell grows mutinous. 

CHORUS OF FURIES. 

From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the 

earth, 
Where the night has its grave and the morning 
its birth. 

Come, come, come ! 
Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth, 
When cities sink howling in ruin ; and ye 
Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea. 
And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track. 
Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck ; 
Come, come, come ! 
Leave the bed, low, cold, and red. 
Strewed beneath a nation dead ; 
Leave the hatred, as in ashes 

Fire is left for future burning : 
It will burst in bloodier flashes 
When ye stir it, soon returning : 



Leave the self-contempt implanted 
In young spirits, sense enchanted. 

Misery's yet unkindled fuel : 
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted 

To the maniac dreamer : cruel 
More than ye can be with hate 

Is he with fear. 

Come, come, come ! 
We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate. 
And we burden the blasts of the atmosphere, 
But vainly we toil till ye come here. 



Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings. 

PANTHEA. 

These solid mountains quiver with the sound 
Even as the tremulous air : their shadows make 
The space within my plumes more black than night. 

FIRST FURT. 

Your call was as a winged car. 
Driven on whirlwinds fast and far ; 
It rapt us from red gulfs of war. 

SECOND FURY. 

From wide cities, famine-wasted; 

THIRD FURY. 

Groans half heard, and blood untasted : 

FOURTH FURY. 

Kingly conclaves, stern and cold, 

Where blood with gold is bought and sold ; 

FIFTH FURY. 

From the furnace, white and hot, 
In which — 



Speak not ; whisper not : 
I know all that ye would tell. 
But to speak might break the spell 
Which must bend the Invincible, 

The stern of thought ; 
He yet defies the deepest power of Hell. 



Tear the veil ! 



ANOTHER FURY. 

It is torn. 



The pale stars of the morn 
Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. 
Dost thou faint, mighty Titan ! We laugh thee 

to scorn. 
Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou waken'dst 

for man ! 
Then was kindled within him a thirst which outran 
Those perishing waters ; a thirst of fierce fever, 
Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume him for 
ever. 
One came forth of gentle worth. 
Smiling on the sanguine earth : 
l2 



126 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



His words outlived him, like swift poison 

Withering up truth, peace, and pity. 
Look ! where round the wide horizon 

Many a millioned peopled city 
Vomits smoke in the bright air. 
Mark that outcry of despair ! 
'Tis his mild and gentle ghost 

Wailing for the faith he kindled : 
Look again ! the flames almost 

To a glowworm's lamp have dwindled : 
The survivors round the embers 
Gather in dread. 

Joy, joy, joy! 
Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers; 
And the future is dark, and the present is spread 
Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Drops of bloody agony flow 

From his white and quivering brow 

Grant a little respite now : 

See a disenchanted nation 

Springs like day from desolation ; 

To truth its state is dedicate, 

And Freedom leads it forth, her mate ; 

A legioned band of linked brothers, 

Whom Love calls childi-en — 

SEMICHORUS II. 

'Tis another's 
See how kindred murder kin ! 
'Tis tlie vintage time for death and sin. 
Blood, like new wine, bubbles within : 
Till Despair smothers 
The struggling world, which slaves and tyrants win. 
[jJZi the Furies vanish, except one. 

lOXE. 

Hark, sister ! what a low yet dreadful groan 
Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the heart 
Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep, 
And beasts hear the sea moan in inland caves. 
Darest thou observe how the fiends torture him ? 

PANTHEA. 

Alas ! I looked forth twice, but will no more. 

lOIfE. 

What didst thou see ? 

PANTHEA. 

A woful sight : a youth 
With patient looks nailed to a crucifix. 

lONE. 

What next ? 



The heaven around, the earth below 
Was peopled with thick shapes of human death 
All horrible, and wrought by human hands, 
And some appeared the work of human hearts. 
For men were slowly killed by frowns and smiles : 
And other sights too foul to speak and live 
Were wandering by. Let us not tempt worse fear 
By looking forth : those groans are grief enough. 



FURT. 

Behold an emblem: those who do endure 

Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but 

heap 
Thousandfold torment on themselves and him. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Remit the anguish of that lighted stare. 

Close those wan lips: let that thorn-woimded brow 

Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears! 

Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death, 

So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix. 

So those pale fingers play not with thy gore. 

O, horrible ! Thy name I will not speak. 

It hath become a curse. I see, I see 

The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just. 

Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee. 

Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's home, 

An early-chosen, late-lamented home. 

As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind ; 

Some linked to corpses in unwholesome cells : 

Some — Hear I not the multitude laugh loud 1 — 

Impaled in lingering fire : and mighty realms 

Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles. 

Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood 

By the red light of their own burning homes. 



Blood thou canst see, and fire ; and canst hear groans : 
Worse things unheard, unseen, remain behind. 



PROMETHEUS. 



Worse ? 



In each human heart terror sin^ives 
The ravin it has gorged : the loftiest fear 
All that they would disdain to think were true : 
Hypocrisy and custom make their minds 
The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. 
They dare not devise good for man's estate, 
And yet they know not that they do not dare. 
The good want power, but to weep barren tears. 
The powerful goodness want : worse need for them. 
The wise want love ; and those who love want wis- 
And all best things are thus confiised to ill. [dom ; 
Many are strong and rich, and would be just, 
But live among their sufiering fellow-men 
As if none felt : they know not what they do. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes ; 
And yet I pity those they torture not. 



Thou pitiest them 1 I speak no more ! [ Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah wo! 
Ah wo ! Alas ! pain, pain ever, for ever ! 
I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear 
Thy works within my wo-illumined mind, 
Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the grave. 
The grave hides all things beautiful and good : 
I am a God and cannot find it there. 
Nor would I seek it : for, though dread revenge. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



127 



This is defeat, fierce king ! not victory. 

The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul 

With new endurance, till the hour arrives 

When they shall be no types of things which are. 

PANTHEA. 

Alas ! what sawest thou 1 

PKOMETHEUS. 

There are two woes ; 
To speak and to behold ; thou spare me one. 
Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they, 
Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry ; 
The nations throng around, and cry aloud. 
As with one voice, Truth, liberty, and love ! 
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven 
Among them : there was strife, deceit, and fear : 
Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil. 
This was the shadow of the truth I saw. 

THE EARTH. 

I felt thy torture, son, with such mixed joy 
As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy state 
I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, 
Whose homes are the dim caves of human thought, 
And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind, 
Its world surrounding ether : they behold 
Beyond that twilight realm, as in a glass, 
The future : may they speak comfort to thee ! 

PANTHEA. 

Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather, 
Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather, 
Thronging in the blue air ! 



And see ! more come. 
Like fountain-vapours when the winds are dumb, 
That climb up the ravine in scattered lines. 
And hark ! is it the music of the pines 1 
Is it the lake ] Is it the waterfall ] 

PAJfTHEA. 

'Tis something sadder, sweeter far than all. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

From unremembered ages we 
Gentle guides and guardians be 
Of heaven-oppressed mortality ! 
And we breathe and sicken not. 
The atmosphere of human thought : 
Be it dim, and dank, and gray. 
Like a storm-extinguished day. 
Travelled o'er by dying gleams: 

Be it bright as all between 
Cloudless skies and windless streams. 

Silent, Hquid, and serene ; 
As the birds within the wind, 

As the fish within the wave. 
As the thoughts of man's own mind 

Float through all above the grave : 
We make there our liquid lair, 
Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
Through the boundless element : 
Thence we bear the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee ! 



More yet come, one by one ; the air around them 
Looks radiant as the air around a star. 

FIRST SPIRIT. 

On a battle-trumpet's blast 
I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
'Mid the darkness upward cast. 
From the dust of creeds outworn, 
From the tyrant's banner torn, 
Gathering round me, onward borne. 
There was mingled many a cry — 
Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
Till they faded through the sky ; 
And one sound above, around. 
One sound beneath, around, above, 
Was moving ; 'twas the soul of love ; 
'Twas the hope, the prophecy. 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

A rainbow's arch stood on the sea. 
Which rocked beneath, immovably ; 
And the triumphant storm did flee. 
Like a conqueror, swift and proud. 
Between with many a captive cloud 
A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd, 
Each by lightning riven in half : 
I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh : 
Mighty fleets were strewn hke chaff 
And spread beneath a hell of death 
O'er the white waters. I aht 
On a great ship lightning-split, 
And speeded hither on the sigh 
Of one who gave an enemy 
His plank, then plunged aside to die. 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

I sate beside a sage's bed. 

And the lamp was burning red 

Near the brook where he had fed. 

When a Dream with plumes of flame, 

To his pillow hovering came, 

And I knew it was the same 

Which had kindled long ago 

Pity, eloquence, and wo ; 

And the world awhile below 

Wore the shade its lustre made. 

It has borne me here as fleet 

As Desire's lightning feet: 

I must ride it back ere morrow, 

Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

On a poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept ; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses. 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 

Nor heed nor see, what things they be ; 

But fi-om these create he can 



128 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Forms more real than living man, 
Nurslings of immortality ! 
One of these awakened me, 
And I sped to succour thee. 

lONE. 

Behold'st thou not two shapesfrom the east and west 

Come as two doves to one beloved nest. 

Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air 

On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere 1 

And, hark ! their sweet sad voices ! 'tis despair 

Muagled with love and then dissolved in sound. 

PANTHEA. 

Canst thou speak, sister 1 all my words are drowned. 

lONE. 

Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float 
On their sustaining wings of skiey grain. 
Orange and azure deepening into gold : 
Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. 

CHOKUS OF SPIRITS. 

Hast thou beheld the form of Love 1 

FIFTH SPIRIT 

As over wide dominions 
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide 

air's wildernesses, 
That planet-crested shape swept by on Ughtning- 

braided pinions, 
Scattering the Uquid joy of life from his ambrosial 

tresses : 
His footsteps paved the world with light ; but as I 

past 'twas fading. 
And hollow Ruin yawned behind: great sages 

bound in madness, 
And headless patriots, and pale youths who pe- 
rished, unupbraiding, 
Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, 

O King of sadness. 
Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected 

gladness. 

SIXTH SPIRIT. 

Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing : 

It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air. 

But treads with silent footstep, and fans with silent 

wing 
The tender hopes which in their hearts the best 

and gentlest bear ; 
Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning 

plumes above. 
And the music-stirring motion of its soft; and busy 

feet, 
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster. 

Love, 
And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he whom 

now we greet. 

CHORUS. 

Though Ruin now Love's shadow be. 
Following him, destroyingly. 

On death's white and winged steed, 
Wiiich the fleetest cannot flee. 

Trampling down both flower and weed, 



Man and beast, and foul and fair. 
Like a tempest through the air ; 
Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, 
Woundless though in heart or limb. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Spirits ! how know ye this shall be 1 

CHORUS. 

In the atmosphere we breathe. 
As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee, 

From spring gathering up beneath. 
Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake, 
And the wandering herdsmen know 
That the whitethorn soon will blow : 
Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
When they struggle to increase. 
Are to us as soft winds be 
To shepherd boys, the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

lONE. 

Where are the Spirits fled 1 

PANTHEA. 

Only a sense 
Remains of them, like the omnipotence 
Of music, when the inspired voice and lute 
Languish, ere yet the responses are mute. 
Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul 
Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How fair these air-bom shapes ! and yet I feel 
Most vain all hope but love ; and thou art far, 
Asia ! who, when my being overflowed, 
Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine 
Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. 
All things are still : alas ! how heavily 
This quiet morning weighs upon my heart; 
Though I should dream I could even sleep with 

grief. 
If slumber were denied not. I would fain 
Be what it is my destiny to be. 
The saviour and the strength of suffering man. 
Or sink into the original gulf of things : 
There is no agony, and no solace left ; 
Earth can console. Heaven can torment no more. 

PANTHEA. 

Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee 
The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when 
The shadow of thy spirit falls on her 1 

PROMETHEUS. 

I said all hope was vain but love : thou lovest. 

PANTHEA. 

Deeply in truth ; but the eastern star looks white, 
And Asia waits in that far Indian vale 
The scene of her sad exile ; rugged once 
And desolate and frozen, like this ravine ; 
But now invested with fair flowers and herbs, 
And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow 
Among the woods and waters, fi'om the ether 
Of her transforming presence, which would fade 
If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell ! 



END or THE FIRST ACT. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



129 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 

Morning. M lonely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. 
Asia, alone. 

Asia. 
From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended: 
Yes, like a sphit, like a thought, which makes 
Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, 
And beatings haunt the desolate heart, [scended 
Which should have learnt repose : thou hast de- 
Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou comest as the memory of a dream, 
Which now is sad because it hath been sweet ; 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 
As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds 
The desert of our life. 
This is the season, this the day, the hour; 
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, 
Too long desired, too long delaying, come ! 
How like death-worms the wingless moments 

crawl ! 
The point of one white star is quivering still 
Deep in the orange light of widening morn 
Beyond the purple mountains : through a chasm 
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
Reflects it ; now it wanes : it gleams again 
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air : 
'Tis lost ! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow 
The roseate sunlight quivers : hear I not 
The ^oHan music of her sea-green plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn 1 

PANTHEA enters. 

I feel, I see 
Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade 

in tears. 
Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew. 
Beloved and most beautiful, who w^arest 
The shadow of that soul by which I live, 
How late thou art ! the sphered sun had climbed 
The sea ; my heart was sick with hope, before 
The printless air felt thy belated plumes. 

PANTHEA. 

Pardon, great Sister ! but my wings were faint 
With the delight of a remembered dream, 
As are the noontide plumes of summer winds 
Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep 
Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm 
Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy 
Unhappy love, had made, through use and pity, 
Both love and wo familiar to my heart 
As they had grown to thine : erewhile I slept 
Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean 
Within dim bowers of green and purple moss, 
Our young lone's soft and milky arms 
Locked then, as now, behind my dark, moist hair. 
While my shut eyes and cheek were pressed withm 
The folded depth of her life-breathing bosom: 
But not as now, since I am made the wind 
Which fails beneath the music that I bear 
17 



Of thy most worldless converse ; since dissolved 
Into the sense with which love talks, my rest 
Was troubled and yet sweet ; my waking hours 
Too full of care and pain. 

ASIA. 

Lift up thine eyes, 
And let me read thy dream. 

PANTHEA. 

As I have said, 
With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
The mountain mists, condensing at our voice 
Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes 
From the keen ice shielding our linked sleep. 
Then two dreams came. One, I remember not. 
But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs 
Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night 
Grew radiant with the glory of that form 
Which hves unchanged within, and his voice fell 
Like music which makes giddy the dim brain, 
Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 
« Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world 
With loveliness — more fair than aught but her, 
Whose shadow thou art — hft thine eyes on me." 
I lifted them : the overpowering light 
Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er 
By love ; which, from his soft and flowing limbs, 
And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes. 
Steamed forth like vaporous fire ; an atmosphere 
Which wrapped me in its all-dissolving power, 
As the warm ether of the morning sun 
Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. 
I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt 
His presence flow and mingle through my blood 
Till it became his life, and liis grew mine, 
And I was thus absorbed, until it passed, 
And like the vapours when the sun sinks down, 
Gathering again in drops upon the pines. 
And tremulous as they, in the deep night 
My being was condensed ; and as the rays 
Of thought were slowly gathered, I could hear 
His voice, whose accents lingered ere they died 
Like footsteps of weak melody : thy name 
Among the many sounds alone I heard 
Of what might be articulate ; though still 
I hstened through the night when sound was none, 
lone wakened then, and said to me : 
"Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night 1 
I always knew what I desired before, 
Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 
But now I cannot tell thee what I seek; 
I know not ; something sweet, since it is sweet 
Even to desire; it is thy sport, false sister; 
Thou hast discovered some enchantment old, 
Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept 
And mingled it with thine : for when just now 
We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips 
The sweet air that sustained me, and the warmth 
Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, 
Quivered between our intertwining arms." 
I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale, 
But fled to thee. 



130 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



ASIA. 

Thou spcakcst, but thy words 
Are as the air : I feel them not : Oh, Uft 
Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul ! 

PANTHXA. 

I lift them, though they droop beneath the load 
Of that they would express : what canst thou see 
But thuae own fairest shadow imaged there 1 

ASIA. 

Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven 
Contracted to two circles underneath 
Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, measureless, 
Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven. 

PAJfTHEA. 

wiry lookest thou as if a spirit passed 1 

ASIA. 

There is a change ; beyond their inmost depth 

I see a shade, a shape : 'tis He, arrayed 

In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread 

Like radiance from the cloud-sun-ounded morn. 

Prometheus, it is thine ! depart not j^et! 

Say not those smiles that we shall meet again 

Within that bright pa\alion which their beams 

Shall build on the waste word 1 The dream is told. 

What shape is that between us ] Its rude hair 

Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard 

Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a tiling of air 

For through its gray robe gleams the golden dew 

Whose stars the noon has quenched not. 

dueam. 
Follow! Follow! 

PANTHEA. 

It is mine other dream. 

ASIA. 

It disappears. 

PANTHEA. 

It passes now into my mind. Mcthought 
As we sate here, the flower-infolding buds 
Burst on yon lightning-blasted almond tree, 
When swift from the white Scythian wilderness 
A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth with fi'ost : 
I looked, and all the blossoms were blown down ; 
But on each leaf was stamped, as the blue bells 
Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 

O, FOLLOW, follow! 

ASIA. 

As you speak, your words 
Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten sleep 
With shapes. Methought among the lawns together 
We wandered, underneath the young gray dawn. 
And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds 
Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind ; 
And the white dew on tlie new-bladed grass, 
Just piercing the dark earth, hung silentlj' ; 
And there was more which I remember not : 
But on the shadows of the morning clouds, 
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written 
Follow, O, follow! As they vanished by. 
And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had 
fallen, 



The Uke was stamped, as with a withering fire, 

A wind arose among the pines ; it shook 

The clinging music fi-om their boughs, and then 

Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts. 

Were heard : Oh, follow, follow, follow me ! 

And then I said, " Panthea, look on me." 

But in the depth of those beloved eyes 

Still I saw, FOLLOW, FOLLOW ! 
ECHO. 

Follow, follow ! 

PANTHEA. 

The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our 
As they were spirit-tongued. [voices, 

ASIA. 

It is some being 
Around the crags. What fine clear somids ! O, list ! 

ECHOES (unseen.') 
Echoes we : listen ! 
We cannot stay : 
As dew-stars glisten 
Then fade away — 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

Hark ! Spirits, speak. The liquid responses 
Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 

PANTHEA. 

I hear. 

ECHOES. 

follow, follow. 

As our voice recedeth 
Through the caverns hollow, 
Where the forest spreadeth ; • 
(More dislant.y 
O follow, follow ! 
Through the caverns hollow. 
As the song floats tiiou pursue. 
Where the wild bee never flew. 
Through the noontide darkness deep^ 
By the odour-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves, 
While our music, wild and sweet, 
Mocks thy gently falling feet. 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

Shall we pursue the sound 1 It grows more faint 
And distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List ! the strain floats nearer now. 

ECHOES. 

In the world unknown 
Sleeps a voice unspoken; 
By thy step alone 
Can its rest be broken ; 
Child of Ocean .' 

ASIA. 

How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind ! 

ECHOES. 

O follow, follow ! 

Through the caverns hollow. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



131 



As the song floats thou pursue, 
By the woodland noontide dew ; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains, 
Through the many-folded mountains ; 
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, 
Where the earth reposed from spasms, 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now; 
Child of Ocean ! 



Come, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in mine, 
And follow, ere the voices fade away. 



SCENE n. 

j9 Forest, inlermingled with Rocks and Caverns. Asia 
and Panthea pass into it. Two young Fauns are sit- 
ting on a Rock, listening, 

SEMICHORUS I. OF SPIRITS. 

The path through which that lovely twain 
Have past, by cedar, pine, and yew, 
And each dark tree that ever grew, 
Is curtained out from Heaven's wide blue ; 
Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers. 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of dew. 
Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze, 
Between the ti-unks of the hoar trees, 

Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers 
Of the green laurel, blown anew ; 
And bends, and then fades silently, 
One frail and fair anemone : 
Or when some star of many a one 
That climbs and wanders through steep night, 
Has found the cleft through which alone 
Beams fall from high those depths upon 
Ere it is born away, away, 
By the swift Heavens that cannot stay. 
It scatters drops of golden light, 
Like hnes of rain that ne'er unite : 
And the gloom di^^ne is all around ; 
And underneath is the mossy ground. 

SEJriCHORTJS II. 

There the voluptuous nightingales, 

Are awake through all the broad noonday, 
When one with bliss or sadness fails. 

And through the windless ivy boughs, 
Sick with sweet love, droops dying away 
On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 
Another from the swinging blossom, 

Watching to catch the languid close 
Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
The wings of the weak melodv. 
Till some new strain of feehng bear 

The song, and all the woods are mute ; 
When there is heard through the dim air 
The rush of wings, and rising there 

Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 
Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
So sweet that joy is almost pain. 



SEMICHORUS I. 

There those enchanted eddies play 

Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw, 
By Demogorgon's mighty law, 
With melting rapture, or sweet awe. 

All spirits on that secret way ; 

As inland boats are driven to Ocean 

Down streams made strong with mountain thaw ; 
And first there comes a gentle sound ' 

To those in talk or slumber bound, 
And wakes the destined, soft emotion 

Attracts, impels them ; those who saw 
Say from the breathing earth behind 
There streams a plume-uplifting wind 

Which drives them on their path, while they 
Believe their own swift wings and feet 

The sweet desires within obey : 

And so they float upon their way, 

Until, still sweet, but loud and strong, 
The storm of sound is driven along. 
Sucked up and hurrying : as they fleet 
Beliuid, its gathering billows meet 
And to the fatal mountain bear 
Like clouds amid the yielding air.- 

FIRST FAUK'. 

Canst thou imagine where those spirits live 
Which make such delicate music in the woods 1 
We haunt writhin the least frequented caves 
And closest coverts, and we know these wilds. 
Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft : 
Where may they liide themselves ? 

SECOTTD FAUX. 

'Tis hard to tell : 
I have heard those more skilled in spirits say, 
The bubbles, which enchantment of the sun 
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers that pave 
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools, 
Are the pavilions where such dwell and float 
Under the green and golden atmosphere 
Which noontide kindles through the woven leaves ; 
And when these burst, and the thin fiery air, 
The wliich they breathedVithin those lucent domes. 
Ascends to flow like meteors through the night. 
They ride on them, and rein their headlong speed, 
And bow their burning crests, and glide in fire, 
Under the waters of the earth again. 

FIRST FAUN. 

If such live thus, have others other lives, 
Under pink blossoms or within the bells 
Of meadow flowers, or folded violets deep, 
Or on their dying odours, when they die 1 
Or on the sunlight of the sphered dew 1 

SECOND FAUN. 

Ay, many more which we may well divine. 
But should we stay to speak, noontide would come. 
And thwart Silenus find his goats undrawn. 
And grudge to sing those wise and lovely songs 
Of fate, and chance, and God, and Chaos old. 
And Love, and the chained Titan's woful doom. 
And how he shall be loosed, and make the earth 
One brotherhood : delightful strains which cheer 
Our soUtary twilights, and which charm 
To silence the unenvying nightingales. 



132 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



SCENE III. 

A Pinnacle of Rock amovg- Mountains. 
Panthea. 



Asia and 



PANTHF.A. 

Hither the sound has borne us — to the realm 

Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, 

Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm, 

Whence the oracular vapour is hurled up 

Which lonely men di-ink wandering in their youth. 

And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy. 

That maddeningwine of life, whose dregs they drain 

To deep intoxication ; and uplift. 

Like Maenads who ciy loud, Evoe ! Evoe ! 

The voice which is contagion to the world. 

ASIA. 

Fit throne for such a Power ! Magnificent ! 
How glorious art thou, Earth ! And if thou be 
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still. 
Though evil stain its work, and it should be 
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, 
I could fall down and worship that and thee. 
Even now my heart adoreth : Wonderful ! 
Look, sister, ere the vapoiir dim thy brain : 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, 
As a lake, pa-ving in the morning sky, 
With azure waves which burst in silver light, 
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 
Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
The peak whereon we stand, midway, around, 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests, 
Dim twilight lawns and stream-illumined caves, 
And wind enchanted shapes of wandering mist ; 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains, 
From icy spires of sunlike radiance fling 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray. 
From some Atlantic islet scattered up. 
Spangles the wind with lamplike water-drops. 
The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl 
Of Cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines 
Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast. 
Awful as silence. Hark ! the rushing snow I 
The sun-awakened avalanche ! whose mass, 
Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there 
Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds 
As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth 
Is loosened, and the nations echo round. 
Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now. 

PA^'THEA. 

Look how the gusty sea of mist is breaking 
In crimson foam, even at our feet ! it rises 
As Ocean at the enchantment of the moon 
Round foodless men wrecked on some oozy isle. 

ASIA. 

The fragments of the cloud are scattered up; 
The wind that lifts them disentwines my hair ; 
Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; my brain 
Grows dizzy ; I see shapes within the mist. 

PANTHEA. 

A countenance \vith beckoning smiles : there burns 
An azure fire within its golden locks ! 
Another and another : hark ! they speak ! 



SONG OF SPIRITS. 

To the deep, to the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Tlirough the shade of sleep. 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of thuigs which seem and are. 
Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down ! 

While the sound whirls around, 

Down, down ! 
As the fawn draws the hound. 
As the lightning the vapour, 
As a weak moth the ta})er ; 
Death, despair ; love, sorrow ; 
Time both; to-day, to-morrow; 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone, 

Down, down ! 

Through the gi"ay, void abysm, 

Down, down ! 
Where the air is no prism, 
And the moon and stars are not. 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given, 
Where there is one pervading, one alone, 

Down, down ! 

In the depth of the deep 

Down, dovni ! 
Like veiled lightning asleep, 
Like the spark nursed in embers. 
The last look Love remembers, 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines. 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone. 

Down, down ! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee ; 

Down, down ! 
With the blight form beside thee j 
Resist not the weakness. 
Such strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose through life's portal [throne 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath his 

By that alone. 



SCENE rv. 

77(e Cave o/Demogorgon. Asia and Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

What veiled form sits on that ebon throne ] 



ASIA. 



The veil has fallen. 



PANTHEA. 



I see a mighty darkness 
Filling the scat of power, and rays of gloom 
Dart round, as light fi-om the meridian sun, 
Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither limb. 
Nor form, nor outline ; yet we feel it is 
A living spirit. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



133 



DEJIOGORGOX. 

Ask what thou woulJst know. 



What canst thou tefl 1 

DEMOGORGON'. 

All things thou dar'st demand. 

ASIA. 

Who made the living world 1 

DEMOGOHGOJf. 

God. 

ASIA. 

Who made all 
That it contains 1 thought, passion, reason, will. 
Imagination 1 

DEJIOSORGON. 

God: Almighty God. 

ASIA. 

Who made that sense which, when the winds of 
In rarest visitation or the voice [spring 

Of one beloved heard in youth alone, 
Fills the faint eyes with falling tears which dim 
The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers, 
And leaves this peopled earth a solitude 
When it returns no more 1 

DEMOGORGOX. 

Merciful God. 

ASIA. 

And who made terror, madness, crime, remorse, 
Which from the links of the great chain of things, 
To every thought within the mind of man 
Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels 
Under the load towards the pit of death ; 
Abandoned hope, and love that turns to hate 
And self-contempt bitterer to drink than blood ; 
Pain, whose unheeded and familiar speech 
Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after day ; 
And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

He reigns. 

ASIA. 

Utter his name ; a world pining in pain 

Asks but his name : curses shall drag him down. 



He reigns. 



DEJIOGORGOX. 
ASIA. 

I feel, I know it ; who ? 
demogohgon. 

ASIA. 



He reigns. 



Who reigns ? There was the Heaven and Earth 

at first, 
And Light and Love ; then Saturn, from whose 

throne 
Time fell, an envious shadow ; such the state 
Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his sway, 
As the calm joy of flowers and living leaves 
Before the wind or sun has withered them 
And semi-vital worms ; but he refused 
The birthright of their being, knowledge, power, 



The skill which wields the elements, the thought 

Which pierces this dim universe like light. 

Self-empire, and the majesty of love ; 

For thirst of which they fainted. Then Prometheus 

Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Jupiter, 

And with this law alone, " Let man be free," 

Clothed him with the dominion of wide Heaven. 

To know nor faith, nor love, nor law ; to be 

Omnipotent but friendless is to reign ; 

And Jove now reigned ; for on the race of man 

First famine, and then toil, and then disease, 

Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen before, 

Fell ; and the unseasonable seasons drove, 

With alternating shafts of frost and fire, 

Their shelterless, pale tiibes to mountain caves : 

And in their desert hearts fierce wants he sent, 

And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle 

Of unreal good, which levied mutual war, 

So ruining the lair wherein they raged. 

Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned hopes 

Wliich sleep within folded Elysian flowers. 

Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless blooms, 

That they might hide with thin and rainbow wings 

The shape of Death ; and Love he sent to bind 

The disunited tendrils of that vine 

Which bears the wine of hfe, the human heart : 

And he tamed fire which, like some beast of prey, 

Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath 

The frown of man ; and tortured to his will 

Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of power, 

And gems and poisons, and all subtlest forms 

Hidden beneath the mountains and the waves. 

He gave man speech, and speech created thought, 

Which is the measure of the universe ; 

And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven. 

Which shook, but fell not; and the harmonious muid 

Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song ; 

And music lifted up the listening spirit 

Until it walked, exempt from mortal care, 

Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound ; 

And human hands first mimicked and then mocked 

With moulded limbs more lovely than its own, 

The human form, till marble grew divine, 

And mothers, gazing, drank the love men see 

Reflected in their race, behold, and perish. 

He told the hidden power of herbs and springs. 

And Disease drank and slept. Death grew like sleep. 

He taught the implicated orbits woven 

Of the wide-wandering stars ; and how the sun 

Changes his lair, and by what secret spell 

The pale moon is transformed, when her broad eye 

Gazes not on the interlunar sea: 

He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs. 

The tempest-winged chariots of the Ocean, 

And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then 

Were built, and through their snowlike columns 

flowed 
The warm winds, and the azure aether shone, 
And the blue sea and shadowy hills were seen. 
Such, the alleviations of his state, 
Prometheus gave to man, for which he hangs 
Withering in destined pain: but who rains down 
Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while 
Man looks on his creation Uke a God 
And sees that it is glorious, drives him on 



134 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



The wreck of his own will, the scorn of earth, 
The outcast, the abaniloned, the alone 1 
Not Jove : while yet his frown shook heaven, ay, 
His adversary, fi-om adamantine chains [when 
Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. Declare 
Who is his master 1 Is he too a slave 1 

DEMOGORRON. 

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil : 
Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 

ASIA. 

"Wliom called'st thou God ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

I spoke but as ye speak, 
For Jove is the supreme of Uving things. 

ASIA. 

Who is the master of the slave 1 

DEMOGORGOU'. 

If the abysm 
Could vomit forth its secrets. But a voice 
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless ; 
For what would it avail to bid thee gaze 
On the revolving world ] What to bid speak 
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance and Change ? To 
All things are subject but eternal Love. [these 

ASIA. 

So much I asked before, and my heart gave 
The response thou hast given ; and of such truths 
Each to itself must be the oracle. 
One more demand ; and do thou answer me 
As my own soul would answer, did it know 
That which I ask. Prometheus shall arise 
Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing world : 
When shall the destined hour arrive 1 



DEMOGORGON. 



Behold ! 



The rocks are cloven, and through the purple night 
I see cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds 
Which trample the dim winds : in each there stands 
A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. 
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, 
And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars : 
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink 
With eager lips the wind of their own speed, 
As if the thing they loved fled on before. [locks 
And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright 
Stream like a comet's flashing hair : they all 
Sweep onward. 

DEMOGORGOJT. 

These are the immortal Hours, 
Of whom thou didst demand. One waits for thee. 

ASIA. 

A spirit with a dreadful countenance 
Checks its dark chariot by ihe craggy gulf. 
Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer, [Speak ! 
Who art thou ? Whither wouldst thou bear me ? 

SPIRIT. 

I am the shadow of a destiny 
More dread than is my aspect : ere yon planet 
Has set, the darkness which ascends with me 
Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's kingless throne. 



What meanest thou 1 

PANTHEA 

That terrible shadow floats 
Up from its throne, as may the lurid smoke 
Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. 
Lo ! it ascends the car ; the coursers fly 
Terrified : watch its path among the stars 
Blackening the night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus I am answered : strange ! 

PANTHEA. 

See, near the verge, another chariot stays ; 
An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire. 
Which comes and goes within its sculptured rim 
Of delicate strange tracery ; the young spirit 
That guides it has the dovelike eyes of hope ; 
How its soft smiles attract the soul ! as light 
Lures winged insects through the lampless air. 

SPIRIT. 

My coursers are fed with the lightning, 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream. 

And when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fiesh sunbeam ; 
They have strength for their swiftness I deem, 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

I desire : and their speed makes night kindle ; 
I fear : they outstrip the Typhoon ; 

Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 
We encircle the earth and the moon : 
We shall rest from long labours at noon : 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 



SCENE V. 

The Car pauses within or Cloud on the Top of a snowy 
Mountain. 

Asia, Tanthea, and the Spirit of the IIocr. 

SPIRIT. 

On the brink of the night and the morning 
My coursers are wont to respire ; 

But the Earth has just whispered a warning 
That their flight must be sT\'ifler than fire : 
They shall drink the hot speed of desire ! 

ASIA. 

Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my breath 
^^'ould give them swifter speed. 

SPIRIT. 

Alas ! it could not. 

PANTHEA. 

Oh Spirit pause, and tell whence is the light 
Which fills the cloud 1 the sun is yet unrisen. 

SPIRIT. 

The sun will rise not until noon. Apollo 
Is held in heaven by wonder ; and the light 
Which fills tliis vapour, as the aerial hue 
Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, 
Flows from thy mighty sister. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



135 



PAIfTHEA. 



Yes, Ifeel- 



What is it with thee, sister ? Thou art pale. 

PANTHEA. 

How thou art changed ! I dare not look on thee ; 

I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure 

The radiance of thy beauty. Some good change 

Is working in the elements, which sutler 

Thy presence thus unveiled. The Nereids tell 

That on the day when the clear hyaline 

Was cloven at thy uprise, and thou didst stand 

Within a veined shell, which floated on 

Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, 

Among the Egean isles, and by the shores 

Which bear thy name ; love, like the atmosphere 

Of the sun's fire filling the living world. 

Burst from thee, and illumined earth and heaven 

And the deep ocean and the sunless caves 

And all that dwells within them ; till grief cast 

Eclipse upon the soul fi'om which it came: 

Such art thou now ; nor is it I alone, 

Thy sister, thy companion, thine own chosen one, 

But the whole world which seeks thy sympathy, 

Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which speak the 

love 
Of all articulate beings ] Feelest thou not 
The inanimate winds enamoured of thee T List] 

ASIA. 

Tliy words are sweeter than aught else but his 
Whose echoes they are : yet all love is sweet. 
Given or returned. Common as light is love, 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air, 
It makes the reptile equal to the God : 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now ; but those who feel it most 
Are happier still, after long sufferings, 
As I shall soon become. 

PANTHEA. 

List! Spirits, speak. 
VOICE (in the air, singing-.) 
Life of Life! thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 
In those looks, where whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning 

Through the vest which seems to hide them ; 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds, ere they di\ide them ; 



And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds. thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others ; none beholds thee. 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From tlic sight, that liquid splendour, 

And all feel, yet see thee never. 

As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness. 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 



My soul is an enchanted boat. 

Which, like a sleeping swan, dotli float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet smging ; 

And thine doth like an angel sit 

Beside the helm conducting it. 
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. 

It seems to float ever, for ever, 

Upon that many winding river. 

Between mountains, woods, abysses, 

A paradise of wildernesses ! 
Till, like one in slumber bound, 
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, 
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound. 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 

In music's most serene dominions ; 
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. 

And we sail on, away, afar. 

Without a course, without a star. 
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven ; 

Till through Elysian garden islets 

By thee, most beautiful of pilots. 

Where never mortal pimiace glided, 

The boat of my desire is guided : 
Realms where the air we breathe is love, 
Which in the winds on the waves doth move. 
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. 

We have passed Age's icy caves. 

And Manhood's dark and tossing waves. 
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray : 

Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 

Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day ; 

A paradise of vaulted bowers 

Lit by downward-gazing flowers, 

And watery paths that wind between 

Wildernesses calm and green. 
Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 
And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ; 
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously ! 



END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



136 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



ACT in. 



hci:nk f. 

Jlmven. ixtvvtv.n on hU ikronn ; 'Vuv/rtn and IM iil.her 
iJi'ilinH ajiKKmhUil. 

jr/i'iTKii. 
Vc (;ori(jfn't^(it<(l powcru of hcsivr-n, who Mliarc 
'J'ho nlory (irid t,li<! HfrfntjUi ofliirn yt; Hr;rv(!, 
llit'yi'ir.i; ! liitririrCorlli I jiki oi;iiiij)ot^rit,. 
All v\hi; hiid l)irr;li Hiihdijif'l to iik; ; iilono 
'J'Ik! koiiI rjf foiin, lik'; uri(:;(f.i)i(<uiMh<:(l (ire, 
Yet l;ur/iH t^)w;ir<ln heaven with ficrco reproach, 

uriil (loiiM., 
Ant! Iiirn(!iil,!it,ir)f), !ui(i reliicliinf, [iniycr, 
Uiirlint? uj( ifjMiirrerlion, wliieli iiiii^tit /nake 
(Jur ()(it.i((ue eiripire irmeeure, th(»iJt{)i liuill 
Oil (dilewt fditli, iit)(l hell'x (•.<)i;v;i\, (ear; 
Afni thoii(j;li iny riirMeH tliroiii/li tlie petiiliiloiiH air, 
Like Hriow on httrlileKH peakH, fall (lake l>y (lake, 
Ami <'lin« io it; though under /riy wralh'M night 
It, cji/film the era^MoC life, Htep alUir HUip, 
Whieh WDunil it, hh irte woundn unHandalhid ('e(!t. 
It yi't nrrnainH Hui»r(rrne o'er niiHcry, 
AHj^iririi^, n)ir<'(/r<!HKed, yet Hoon U> (all : 
liVeri riDW have I ln'jrotteri a (itranj^e wonder, 
'J'hat fatal child, tlie tern»r of the earth. 
Who waitM hut till tin; deHtinird hour arrive, 
|}eariri(< Croiri JJenDjrori^on'M vacant throne 
'J'he dn^aijful »ii)<lit of evrrrlivin;^ linilm 
Whii^h clothed that awful Kpirit uidielield, 
'J'o redeMcen((, and trample out the H(»ark. 

J'oiir fourth lieav«!n'H wine, hlarafi (;ranyinede, 

And let it (ill thc! Oiedai cupw like; (ire, 

And froin the (lowi^r-in woven Hoil divine, 

Ye all-triuiriphaiit haritionieH iiriiie. 

Ah dew fro/n earth under the twiii|j[ht Htarn: 

J>riuk! he the rieetar eireliriK thron(.;h your v(;inH 

The Houl of joy, ye ever-liviut{ (»odH, 

Till exultation hurMt in one widr; voice 

liike HiUHie iroiii JOIyHian windn. 

And thou 
AMcend 1)eHido me, veiled in {lie li{{ht 
Of the dcHirfr which rnakcH thee on(! v/ith rn(!, 
'I'lictiM, hriidit irnat^f! of elemity ; 
When thou didnt cry, " Inttullcralile niKht! 
(;iod ! H|iarcfrie! I HUKlaiii not the (|uick (laniftM, 
7'h(! piTietratiii/r prcMcnce ; all rny heiriji, 
(like hiiri whom tiie Nnmidian He()H did thaw 
Into a d(!W with [loiHon, in diHHolved, 
Hinking throuiili itH foundatioiiH:" o.vcn llien 
Two nii)(hty Hjiiritn, iriiii);lin(j inade a third 
MiKhticr than either, which, urdiodied now, 
Hctween UH lloatM, lilt, altliou|rh unliclield, 
Waitintt the- incarnalion, wlii<'li aHceridH, 
(Hear ye t!i(! thunder of \\)i\ fiery wheelH 
f»ridin« the witi(ln'!) froni Demoj^ornon'H throne. 
Victory! victory! {''eelcHt thou not, () world! 
'i'lie earthijuake of IiIh chariot thumlerin^; up 
OlympuH'! 

I'f'lir. Car tif Itif llotili arrivrn, I)i';ivio(;(ni(irii<i iln- 
eir.nih iind miiiiiin towardii l.liii ThrnnB iif JuiTrivK. 

Awful Hhape, what urt thou 1 Hp(!uk ! 



iiKMooonnow. 

Eternity. IJernanrI no direr name. 

lh;wj:fM\, and follow ine dr)wn the ahytM. 

I am thy chiM, jui thou wert Haturn'M child ; 

Mightier than tfief; : anfl we miiHt dwell to;.^ether 

ile;iccf(;rth in diirkn<',H>t. Jiilt thy lij^htningM not. 

The tyranny of heaven none may r(;tain, 

Or reaHHume, or hold, tiuccr:edi(ij5 thee: 

Vet if thou wilt, -M 'tiH the destiny 

Of trodden worniM to writhe till they arc dead, 

Put forth thy jniidil. 

J f I' IT Kit. 

\)iXfMUn\ pr()dij^y ! 
Even thuH heneath the derip 'i'it^iniau priHonw 
1 tramjde thee ! 'J'hou hngerewt ? 

Mercy ! mercy ! 
iVo [)ity, no releaHe, no rcHpite ! Oh, 
That thou wouldnl make mine, enemy my judge, 
I'iVen wher(! he hani;H, wrared hy my long revenge, 
On (Jau<;aHUH ! he would not doom me thu». 
(•entif!, and jUHt, and rlreadli:M», in he not 
Tlir; nionarch of the world '! What then art tliou? 
J\'o refuge ! no appeal ! 

Rink with me, then, 
We two will Hink on tlie wide wavcHof ruin. 
Even ana vulturr; and a Hnake outxpent 
Droji, twi«t.«^d in inrjxtricahle tight, 
Inf-o a HhondeHH Heu. Jict hell unlock 
ItH mounded oc/;anH of (-empcHtuouH (ire. 
And whidm on tln^m int,o the hotUjmleMH void 
Thiw deHolat<'d world, and thee, and me, 
Tlie coinpieror and the eon'|Uered,and the wreck 
Of that for which lliey eomhaled. 

Ai! Ai! 
The elementH ohey me not. I nink 
l)h/,i\y down, ever, (iir ever, down. 
And, like a cloud, /nine <;nemy ahove. 
JJarkenw my full with victory ; Ai, Ai ! 



8CENE II. 

'/'Ill: Mouth nf a ffriiat, Ilivcr in Ihit Inland Jlllanlin. 
OcKAN r!« d'lHf.Diu-.ri'.d reclining jinar the Uliure; A if ould 
ttiiuds hiiHide him. 

OCKAN. 

He fell, thou Hayent, heneath luM conrjueror'M frown 1 

Vkl'OI.I.CI. 

Ay, when the ntrile waH ended which rniule dim 

'i'lie orh I rule, and Hhook the Kolid wtarH, 

The terrorw of hiw eye illumined licavrin 

With Haiiguine lit(ht, through thc! thick rugged HkirtH 

Of the victoriouH darkncHH, an he fell: 

Like the laMtglan; of day'H rrul agony. 

Which from a rent among the fiery cloudH, 

lluriiH far along the tempeHt-wrinkled deep. 

OCKAKf. 

He Hunk to tli(! ahyHH? To the dark void? 



I'KOMRTHEUS UNBOUND. 



137 



APOLLO. 

An f'ni^Ir; ho cauf^ht in Homr ImrHtiriK cloud 
On (JiiiifiiKiiH, liJH t,liini(l<T-l)ii(Il<(l win^H 
I'".iiliiii(;l<!(l in till! wliirlwiiid, :in(! liiw cycH 
Wliifli (r-,/,(.,I (,|, th(. iiiidnzzlint,' Hun, now lilindcd 
IJy lli<r white lii^liUiin!,', wliilr-, tlif! pond(!roiiH liiiil 
UciitHon liiH Htrii;,'(,'linf? form, which winkH at W-nir\h 
J*ron(!, and the aerial ice clingH over it. 

OCKAN. 

irciicf^rorth tlir! ficldn of ITcavon-roflcctinff Hca 
Whicii arc my realm, will heave, uriHtaincd with 

hlood, 
IJcneatli tin; n|)lifting winilH the [ihiinH of corn 
fSwiiycd hy the Hiirniner air; my HtrcaniH will flow 
Round many j)eoj)led continentK, and round 
Fortunate IhIch ; and from their ghiKKy throncH 
Ulue I'rotcim and hiw humid nymphH Hhall mark 
The, Hhaiiow of fa,ir HhipH, aw mortaln H(;e 
'I'Ik! floatin({ hark of ttu; lifjht laden moon 
With that white Htar, il.H Hi[;htleMH pilot'H c,r<!i4t, 
Moriie down the rii[iid HuriKi't'H i^hhinj^ Hea ; 
'IVaikint; their jiath no more hy iiloorl and f.;roanH, 
And dcHoiation, and the /niriid''d voice; 
Of alavery and command; hut hy the light 
Of wave reflected flowerH, and floating odourd, 
And rnuKic Hfd't, and mild, free, g(!ntle voiceH, 
'J'hat HweetcHt muHic, Huch aH H[)iritH love. 



And I Hhall gaze not on the deedw which make 
My mind oh.-icure with Horrow, an f^ciijKie 
iJarkenH the H|)her(! I gtiide ; hut lint, I hear 
The Hinall, clear, wilver \\tU: of the young Hjiirit 
That Hitx i' the morning Htar. 

OCKAN. 

Thou muHt nway ; 
Thy HteedH will paune at even, till when farewell ; 
'J'he loud d(!ep calln me home even now to feed it 
With azure calm out of the i-hktM uruH 
Which Ktand for ever full hiiHide my throne. 
I'ehold the ]N'f;reidH un(l<;r the green nea, 
'I'lieir wavering liml)H home on the winillike Htream, 
'I'hf^ir white arrnH lift<;<l o'er their Htreaming hair 
With garlundu jiied and Htarry wea-flower <TownH, 
IlaHtcning to gnuic their mighty WHler'H joy. 

\JI niv.nij. of wd.vim in heard. 
It JH the unpa«tured Hca hungering for calm. 
l'ir<uM, moriHtfjr ; I come now. Farewtdl. 

AI'OLI.O. 

Farewell. 



SCENE III. 

Cavranv!. f'noMF,TiiKi;«, IlKricuLKH, loNE, the Earth, 
HiMuiTM, AMtA, iiriil Tantiika, Ijume in the Car with 
the Hl'lllIT OK TMK Hoi.'K. 

IIi:iici;i,Kf« unliindii Piiombtiikuh who dmcnnin. 
iikhci;lkh. 

MoHt glorious among Kpirifj*! thiiH doth utrcngth 
To wiwlorn, courage, and long-Huffering love, 
A nd thrte, who art the form they animat/;, 
MiniMt4:r like u Hlavc. 

18 



I'llO.MKTUKIIH. 

Thy gentle word« 
Ar<! Hwecter even than freedom long dewrcd 
And long delayed. 

Ania, thou light of lifi% 
Hhadow of Ixauty uniieheld; anil ye. 
Fair HiHtiir nymjdiH, who made long yearn of pain 
Hwetit to rf^mtimher, through your lov(; and care; 
IfefK'eforth W(! will not j)art. 'J'here in a cav*-., 
Ail overgrown with trailing odorouH plantH, 
Whir:h curtain out tin; day with leaven and flowerH, 
And (laved with V(^ined eiririrald, and a fountain, 
L< ajiH in the niidnt with an awakening nourid. 
From ilH curved roof the rriountain'H frozen tearH, 
Iiike Hiiovv, or nilver, or long diainond Hjiirr^H, 
Hang dowti ward, raining forth a douhtful light: 
And then! ih heard the ever-moving air, 
WluHjiering williout from tree to tree, and hirdn, 
A;id Iicch; and all around are rnoKHy HeutH, 
And th(! rough wa Una re clothed with longHoftgraKH; 
A Himjde. dwelling, which nhall he our ovvji ; 
Where we will nit and talk of lime and change. 
Am the worlrl i:\>\m and flowH, ournr'lveH unchanged. 
What can hide man from /nutahility ? 
And if ye nigh, then I will nmile; and thou, 
lone, Hhall chaurit fragrnentn of Hea-rrujKic, 
Until I wftep, when ye Hhall Hmile away 
'flic tearH nlie hrought which yet were Hwr:ct to HJicd. 
We will entangle hudH and flowerH and heanm 
Which twinkle on the fountain'H hrim, and make 
•Strange comhinationH out of common thingH, 
Like human hala^H in their hrief innocence ; 
And we will Hcarch with lookH and wordn of love. 
For hidden thouglilH, t^ach loveliiT than the laHt, 
Our unexhauHted HfiiritH; and like liiten 
'J'ouched hy the Kkill of tlie enamoured wind, 
Weave harmonicH divitxr, yet ever new. 
From did'erence Hweet where dincord cannot he; 
And hither comi!, Hped on tfie charmiul windn, 
Which meet, from all the poirifHof heaven, aH bccM 
From every flower aerial lOfuia fi'Cfl.M, 
At thfrir known i.Hland-home.M in Jlimera, 
The echocH of the human W'lrld, which tell 
Of tiie low voice of love, almont unheard. 
And dove-eyed pity'w murmured pain, and mUHic, 
Itnelf the echo-of the heart, and all 
That ternperH or im(»roveH ifjan'H life, now free; 
And lovely apjiaritiouH, rlim at firHt, 
'J'lutn radiant, aw the mind, ariHing hright 
From th(! embrace of beauty, whence tlm forrnH 
Of which thcHe are tlu; jdiantomH, cawtH on th(;m 
'J'he gathered rayH whic,h are reality. 
Shall viwit uh, tht; [irogeny irrunorta! 
Of J'ainting, H<'ulj)ture, and rapt Foewy, 
Anil artH though unimagined, yet to be. 
'i'lie wandi'ring voicen and thi; HhadowH theno 
()f all that man becomeH, the rnediatorn 
Of that bcHt worHhip, love, by him and uh [grow 
(jiven and returned: HwiftHhaficHandHOUndH, which 
More fair and Hofl an man growH wine and kind, 
And veil by veil, evil and error fall : 
Huch virtue haw the cave and [dace around. 

\Turiiinii tothr. Hi'/iirr OK TnBlIoiiu. 
For thee, fair Hjiirit, one t^iil remairm. lone, 
Give her that curve,d Hhell, which ProtcuH old, 
m2 



138 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within it 
A voice to be accomplished, and which thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. 



Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovely 
Than all thy sisters, this the mystic shell ; 
See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light : 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping there ? 

SPIRIT. 

It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean : 

Its sound must be at once both sweet and strange. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Go, borne over the cities of mankind 
On whirlwind-footed coursers : once again 
Outspeed the sun around the orbed world ; 
And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air 
Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, 
Loosening its mighty music ; it shall be 
As thunder mingled with clear echoes : then 
Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. 

And thou, O Mother Earth ! — 

THE EARTH. 

I hear, I feel ; 
Thy lips are on me, and thy touch runs down 
Even to the adamantine central gloom 
Along these marble nerves ; 'tis life, 'tis joy. 
And, through my withered, old, and icy frame 
The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down 
Circling. Henceforth the many children fair 
Folded in my sustaining arms ; all plants. 
And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-winged, 
And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes. 
Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom, 
Draining the poison of despair, shall take 
And interchange sweet nutriment ; to me 
Shall they become like sister-antelopes 
By one fair dam, snow-white and swift as wind, 
Nursed among lilies near a brimming stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall float 
Under the stars like balm : night-folded flowers 
Shall suck unwithering hues in their repose : 
And men and beasts in happy dreams shall 

gather 
Strength for the coming day, and all its joy : 
And death shall be the. last embrace of her 
Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother. 
Folding her child, says, " Leave me not again." 



Oh, mother ! wherefore speak the name of death ? 
Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, and 

speak, 
Who die 1 

THE EARTH, 

It would avail not to reply : 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known 
But to the uncommunicating dead. 
Death is the veil whicli those who live call life : 
They sleep, and it is lifted : and meanwhile 
In mild variety the seasons mild 



\^'^itli rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous winds, 
And long blue meteors cleansing the dull night. 
And the life-kindling shafts of the keen sun's 
All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled rain 
Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence mild. 
Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay, even 
The crag-built deserts of the barren deep, 
With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and flowers. 
And thou ! There is a cavern where my spirit 
Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy pain 
Made my heart mad, and those that did inhale it 
Became mad too, and built a temple there. 
And spoke, and were oracular, and lured 
The erring nations round to mutual war, 
And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with thee ; 
Which breath now rises, as amongst tall weeds 
A violet's exhalation, and it fills 
With a sercner light and crunson air 
Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods around ; 
It feeds the quick growth of the serpent vine. 
And the dark linked ivy tangling wild, 
And budding, blown, or odour-faded blooms 
Which star the winds with points of coloured light, 
As they rain through them, and bright golden 

globes 
Of fruit, suspended in their own green heaven. 
And through their veined leaves and amber stems 
The flowers whose purple and translucid bowls 
Stand ever mantling with aerial dew. 
The drink of spirits : and it circles round, 
Like the soft waving wings of noonday dreams, 
Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like mine, 
Now thou art thus restored. This cave is thine. 
Arise ! Appear ! 

[./3 Spirit rises in the likeness of a winged child. 
This is my torch-bearer ; 
Who let his lamp out in old time with gazing 
On eyes from which he kindled it anew 
With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter mine, 
For such is that within thine own. Run, wayward. 
And guide this company beyond the peak 
Of Bacchic Nysa, Mccnad-haunted mountain. 
And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers. 
Trampling the torrent streams and glassy lakes 
With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, 
And up the green ravine, across the vale, 
Beside the windless and crystalline pool, 
Where ever lies, on unerasing waves. 
The image of a temple, built above, 
Distinct with column, arch, and architrave, 
And palinlike capital, and overwrought. 
And populous most with li\dng imagery, 
Praxitelean shapes, whose marble smiles 
Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. 
It is deserted now, but once it bore 
Thy name, Prometheus; there the emulous 

youths 
Bore to thy honour through the divine gloom 
The lamp which was thine emblem; even as 

those 
Who bear the untransmitted torch of hope 
Into the grave, across the night of life. 
As thou hast borne it most triumphantly 
To this fair goal of Time. Depart, farewell. 
Beside that temple is the destined cave. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



139 



SCENE IV. 

A Forest. In the Back-ground a Cave. Prometheus, 
Asia. Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the Earth. 

lONE. 

Sister, it is not earthly : how it glides 
Under the leaves ! how on its head there burns 
A light, like a green star, whose emerald beams 
Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as it moves, 
The splendour drops in flakes upon the grass ! 
Knowest thou it 1 

PANTHEA. 

It is the delicate spirit 
That guides the earth through heaven. From afar 
The populous constellations call that light 
The loveliest of the planets ; and sometimes 
It floats along the spray of the salt sea, 
Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud. 
Or walks through fields or cities while men sleep, 
Or o'er the mountain tops, or down the rivers, 
Or through the green waste wilderness, as now, 
Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove reigned 
It loved our sister Asia, and it came 
Each leisiure hour to drink the liquid light 
Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted 
As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
It made its childish confidence, and told her 
All it had known or seen, for it saw much. 
Yet idly reasoned what it saw ; and called her, 
For whence it sprung it knew not, nor do I, 
Mother, dear mother. 
TUE SPIRIT OF THE EAHTH (running to Asia.') 

Mother, dearest mother; 
May I then talk with thee as I was wont 1 
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft arms. 
After thy looks have made them tired of joy ] 
May I then play beside thee the long noons, 
When work is none in the bright silent air ■? 

ASIA. 

I love thee, gentlest being ! and henceforth 
Can cherish thee unenvied. Speak, I pray : 
Thy simple talk once solaced, now delights. 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH. 

Mother, I am grown wiser, though a child 
Cannot be wise like thee, within this day ; 
And happier too ; happier and wiser both, [worms, 
Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and loathly 
And venomous and malicious beasts, and boughs 
That bore ill berries in the woods, were ever 
A hindrance to my walks o'er the green world : 
And that, among the haunts of humankind, 
Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry looks, 
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow smiles, 
Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance. 
Or other such foul masks, with which ill thoughts 
Hide that fair being whom we spirits call man ; 
And women too, ugliest of all things evil, 
(Though fair, even in a world where thou art fair, 
When good and kind, free and sincere like thee,) 
When false or frowning made me sick at heart 
To pass them, though they slept, and I unseen. 
Well, my path lately lay through a great city 
Into the woody hills surrounding it : 
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate : 



When there was heard a sound, so loud, it shook 

The towers amid the moonlight, yet more sweet 

Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all ; 

A long, long sound, as it would never end : 

And all the inhabitants leapt suddenly 

Out of their rest, and gathered in the streets, 

Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while yet 

The music pealed along. I hid myself 

Within a fountain in the public square, 

Where I lay like the reflex of the moon 

Seen in a wave under green leaves ; and soon 

Those ugly human shapes and visages 

Of which I spoke as having wrought me pain, 

Past floating through the air, and fading still 

Into the winds that scattered them ; and those 

From whom they past seemed mild and lovely forms 

After some fgul disguise had fallen, and all 

Were somewhat changed, and after brief surprise 

And greetings of delighted wonder, all 

Went to their sleep again : and when the dawn 

Came, wouldst thou think that toads, and snakes, 

Could e'er be beautiful ] yet so they were, [and efts, 

And that with little change of shape or hue : 

All things had put their evil nature off': 

I cannot tell mj^ joy, when o'er a lake 

Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined, 

I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward 

And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries. 

With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay 

Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky ; 

So with my thoughts full of these happy changes, 

We meet again, the happiest change of all. 

ASIA. 

And never will we part, till thy chaste sister 
Who guides the frozen and inconstant moon 
Will look on thy more warm and equal light 
Till her heart thaw like flakes of April snow. 
And love thee. 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH. 

What ! as Asia loves Prometheus 1 

ASIA. 

Peace, wanton ! thou art yet not old enough. 
Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes 
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
With sphered fires the interlunar air ? 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH. 

Nay, mother, while my sister trims her lamp 
'Tis hard I should go darkling. 

ASIA. 

Listen; look! 
The Spirit of the Hour enters. 

PROMETHECS. 

We feel what thou hast heard and seen : yet speak. 

SPIRIT OF THE HOUR. 

Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder filled 
The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, 
There was a change : the impalpable thin air 
And the all-circling sunlight were transformed. 
As if the sense of love, dissolved in them, 
Had folded itself round the sphered world. 
My vision then grew clear, and I could see 



Into the mysteries of the universe : 

Dizzy as with delight I floated down, 

Winnowing the lightsome air with languid plumes, 

My coursers sought their birthplace in the sun, 

Where they henceforth will live exempt from toil. 

Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire. 

And where my moonlike car will stand within 

A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 

Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me. 

And you fair nymphs, looking the love we feel ; 

lu memory of the tidings it has borne ; 

Beneath a dome fretted with graven flowers. 

Poised on twelve columns of resplendent stone, 

And open to the bright and liquid sky. 

Yoked to it by an amphisbenic snake 

The likeness of those winged steeds will mock 

The flight from which they find repose. Alas, 

Whither has wandered now my partial tongue 

When all remains untold which ye would hear 1 

As I have said, I floated to the earth : 

It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 

To move, to breathe, to be ; I wandering went 

Among the haunts and dwellings of mankind, 

And first was disappointed not to see 

Such mighty change, as I had felt within, 

Expressed in outward things; but soon I looked. 

And behold, thrones were kingless, and men walked 

One with the other even as spirits do. 

None fawned, none trampled ; hate, disdain, or fear 

Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows 

No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 

" All hope abandon ye who enter here ;" 

None frown'd, none trembled, none with eager fear 

Gazed on another's eye of cold command, 

Until the subject of a tyrant's will 

Became, worse fate, the abject of his own. 

Which spurred him, like an outspent horse, to death. 

None wrought his lips in truth-entangling lines. 

Which smiled the Ue his tongue disdained to speak ; 

None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own heart 

The sparks of love and hope till there remained 

Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed. 

And the wretch crept a vampire among men, 

Infecting all vnth his own hideous ill ; 

None talked that common, false, cold, hollow talk 

Which makes the heart deny the yes it breathes. 

Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 

With such a self-mistrust as has no name. 

And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind 

As the free heaven which rains fresh light and dew 

On the wide earth, past ; gentle radiant forms. 

From custom's evil taint exempt and pure ; 



Speaking the wisdom once they could not think. 

Looking emotions once they feared to feel. 

And changed to all which once they dared not be, 

Yet being now, made earth like heaven ; nor pride, 

Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill-shame. 

The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall. 

Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment seats, and prisons; 

wherein. 
And beside which, by wretched men were borne 
Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes 
Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance. 
Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes. 
The ghosts of a no more remembered fame. 
Which, fi-om their unworn obehsks, look forth 
In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs [round 

Of those who were their conquerors : mouldering 
Those imaged to the pride of kings and priests, 
A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide 
As is the world it wasted, and are now 
But an astonishment ; even so the tools 
And emblems of its last captivity. 
Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth. 
Stand, not o'erthrown, but imregarded now. 
And those foul shapes, abhorred b)' god and man, 
Which, under many a name and many a form. 
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and execrable. 
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world ; 
And which the nations, panic-stricken, served 
With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, and 
Dragged to his altars soiled and garlandless, [love 
And slain among men's unreclaiming tears. 
Flattering the thing they feared, wliich fear was 

hate. 
Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandoned 

shrines : 
The painted veil, by those who were, called life. 
Which mimick'd, as with colours idly spread. 
All men believed and hoped, is torn aside ; 
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains 
Scepti-eless, free, uncircumscribed, but man 
Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless. 
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king 
Over himself; just, gentle, wise : but man 
Passionless ; no, yet free from guilt or pain. 
Which were, for his will made or suffered them. 
Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, 
From chance, and death, and mutability. 
The clogs of that which else might oversoar 
The loftiest star of unascended heaven, 
Pinnacled dim in the hitense inane. 



END OF THE THIRD ACT- 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



141 



ACT IV. 



Scene, — A •part of the Forest near the cave of Prome- 
theus. Panthea and Ione are sleeping: they 
awaken gradually during the first Song. 

VOICE OF UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The pale stars are gone ! 
For the sun, their swift shepherd 
To their folds them compelling, 
In the depths of the dawn. 
Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee 
Beyond his blue dwelling. 
As fawns flee the leopard, 
But where are ye 1 

A train of dark Forms and Shadows pass hy confusedly 
singing. 
Here, oh ! here : 
We bear the bier 
Of the Father of many a cancelled year ! 
Spectres we 
Of the dead Hours be, 
We bear time to his tomb in eternity. 

Strew, oh ! strew 

Hair, not yew ! 
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew ! 

Be the faded flowers 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours ! 

Haste, oh, haste ! 

As shades are chased, 
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste. 

We melt away, 

Like dissolving spray. 
From the children of a diviner day, 

With the lullaby 

Of winds that die 
On the bosom of their own harmony ! 

lONE. 

What dark forms were theyl 

PANTHEA. 

The past Hours weak and gray, 
With the spoil which their toil 

Raked together 
From the conquest but One could foil. 

IONE. 

Have they past 1 

PANTHEA. 

They have past ; 
They outspeeded the blast, 
While 'tis said, they are fled : 

lONE. 

Whither, oh ! whither 1 

PANTHEA. 

To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 

VOICE OP UNSEEN SPIHITS. 

Bright clouds float in heaven, 
Dew-stars gleam on earth. 
Waves assemble on ocean. 
They are gathered and driven 



By the storm of delight, by the panic of glee ! 
They shake with emotion, 
They dance in their mirth. 
But where are yel 

The pine boughs are singing 
Old songs with new gladness, 
The billows and fountains 
Fresh music are flinging. 
Like the notes of a spirit from land and from sea ; 
The storms mock the mountains 
With the thunder of gladness, 
But where are ye ] 

lONE. 

What charioteers are these 1 

PANTHEA. 

Where are their chariots 1 

SEMICHOnUS OF HOURS. 

The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Earth 
Have drawn back the figured curtain of sleep 
Which covered our being and darkened our birth 
In the deep. 

A VOICE. 

In the deep ? 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Oh ! below the deep. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

A hundred ages we had been kept 

Cradled in visions of hate and care. 

And each one who waked as his brother slept, 

Found the truth — 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Worse than his visions were ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep ; 
We have known the voice of Love in dreams, 
We have felt the wand of Power, and leap — 

SEMICHORUS II. 

As the billows leap in the morning beams ! 



Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze, 

Pierce with song heaven's silent light. 
Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, 

To check its flight ere the cave of night. 
Once the hungry Hours were hounds 

Which chased the day like a bleeding; deer, 
And it limped and stumbled with many wounds 

Through the nightly dells of the desert year. 
But now, oh! weave the mystic measure 

Of music, and dance, and shapes of light, 
Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and 
pleasure, 

Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 

A VOICE. 

Unite. 



142 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



PANTHEA. 

See, where the Spirits of the human mind 
Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, 
approach. 

CHOnUS OF SPIRITS. 

We join the throng 

Of the dance and the song, 
By the whirlwind of gladness borne along ; 

As the flying-fish leap 

From the Indian deep. 
And mix with the sea-birds half-asleep. 

CHOIIUS OF Houns. 
Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, 
For sandals of lightning are on your feet. 
And your wings are soft and swift as thought. 
And your eyes are as love which is veiled not ] 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

We come from the mind 

Of human kind, 
Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and bhnd ; 

Now 'tis an ocean 

Of clear emotion, 
A heaven of serene and mighty motion. 

From that deep abyss 
Of wonder and bliss, 
Wliose caverns are crystal palaces; 
From those skiey towers 
Where thought's crowned powers 
Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours ! 

From the dim recesses 

Of woven caresses. 
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses ; 

From the azure isles. 

Where sweet Wisdom smiles. 
Delaying your ships with her syren wiles. 

From the temples high 

Of Man's ear and eye. 
Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy; 

From the murmurings 

Of the unsealed springs 
Where Science bedews his Dcedal wings. 

Years after years. 

Through blood, and tears. 
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears ; 

We waded and flew. 

And the islets were few 
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness 
grew. 

Our feet now, every palm, 

Are sandalled with calm, 
And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm ; 

And, beyond our eyes, 

The human love lies. 
Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS AND HOURS. 

Then weave the web of the mystic measure ; 
From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth. 

Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure, 
Fill the dance and the music of mirth. 

As the waves of a thousand streams rush by 

To an ocean of splendour and harmony ! 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

Our spoil is won. 

Our task is done. 
We are free to dive, or soar, or run ; 

Beyond and around, 

Or within the bound 
Which clips the world with darkness round. 

We'll pass the eyes 

Of the staiTy skies 
Into the hoar deep to colonize : 

Death, Chaos, and Night, 

From the sound of our flight, 
Shall flee, like mist fiom a tempest's might. 

And Earth, Air, and Light, 

And the Spirit of Might, 
Which drives round the stars in their fiery flight; 

And Love, Thought, and Breath, 

The powers that quell Death, 
Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath. 

And our singing shall build 

In the void's loose field 
A world -for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield ; 

We will take our plan 

From the new world of man 
And our work shall be called the Promethean. 

CHORUS OF HOURS. 

Break the dance, and scatter the song; 
Let some depart, and some remain. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We, beyond heaven, are driven along : 

SEMICHOIIUS II. 

Us the enchantments of earth retain : 

SEMICIIORUS I. 

Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free. 

With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea, 

And a heaven where yet heaven could never be. 

SEIMICHORUS II. 

Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, 
Leading the Day, and outspecding the Night, 
With the powers of a world of perfect light. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere. 
Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear 
From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth, 
And the happj' forms of its death and birth 
Change to the music of our sweet mirth. 

CHORUS OF HOURS AXD SPIRITS. 

Break the dance, and scatter the song, 
Let some depart and some remain, 
Wherever we fly we lead along 
In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet strong. 
The clouds that are hea^'y with love's sweet rain. 

PANTHEA. 

Ha ! they are gone ! 

lOXE. 

Yet feel }'ou no delight 
From the past sweetness ! 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



143 



PAKTHEA. 

As the bare green hill 
When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, 
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water 
To the unpavilioned sky ! 

lOJfE. 

Even whilst we speak 
New notes arise. What is that awful sound ? 

PAJfTHEA. 

'Tis the deep music of the rolling world, 
Kindling vnthin the strings of the waved air 
^olian modulations. 

lOXE. 

Listen too, 
How every pause is filled with under-notes, 
Clear, silver, icy, keen awakening tunes, 
Which pierce the sense, and hve within the soul, 
As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal air 
And gaze upon themselves vdthin the sea. 

PAXTUEA. 

But see where, through two openings in the forest 
Which hanging branches overcanopy, 
And where two runnels of a rivulet, 
Between the close moss, violet inwoven. 
Have made their path of melody, like sisters 
Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles, 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts ; 
Two visions of strange radiance float upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound, 
Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet 
Under the ground and through the windless air. 

lOXE. 

I see a chariot like that thinnest boat 

In which the mother of the months is borne 

By ebbing night into her western cave, 

When she upsprings fi-om interlunar dreams, 

O'er which is curbed an orblike canopy 

Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods 

Distinctl}^ seen through that dusk airy veil. 

Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass ; 

Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, 

Such as the genii of the thunderstorm 

Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 

When the sun rushes under it ; they roll 

And move and grow as with an inward wind; 

Within it sits a winged infant, white 

Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow. 

Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, 

Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing 

Of its white robe, woof of setherial pearl. [folds 

Its hair is white, the brightness of white light 

Scattered in strings ; yet its two eyes are heavens 

Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 

Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured 

From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy lashes, 

Tempering the cold and radiant air around. 

With fire that is not brightness ; in its hand 

It sways a quivering moonbeam, fi-om whose point 

A guiding power directs the chariot's prow 

Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll 

Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds, 

Sweet as a smi^insr rain of silver dew. 



PANTHEA. 

And from the other opening in the wood 

Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, 

A sphere, whirh is as many thousand spheres, 

Solid as crj'stal, yet through all its mass 

Flow, as through empty space, music and light : 

Ten thousand orbs involving and involved. 

Purple and azure, white, green and golden. 

Sphere within sphere ; and every space betvi'een 

Peopled with unimaginable shapes. 

Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep, 

Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl 

Over each other with a thousand motions, 

Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning. 

And with the force of self-destroying swiftness. 

Intensely, slowly, solemnly, roll on, 

Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones. 

Intelligible words and music wild. 

With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb 

Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist 

Of elemental sulitlcty, like light; 

And the wild odour of the forest flowers. 

The music of the living grass and aii". 

The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams 

Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed, 

Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 

Which drowns the sense. Within the oi'b itself, 

Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, 

Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, 

On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, 

The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 

And you can see its little lips are moving. 

Amid the changing light of their own smiles. 

Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. 

lONE. 

'Tis only mocking the orb's harmony. 

PANTHEA. 

And fi-om a star upon its forehead, shoot 
Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears 
With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined, 
Embleming heaven and earth united now. 
Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel 
Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought, 
Filling the abyss with sunlike lightnings. 
And perpendicular now, and now transverse. 
Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass, 
Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart ; 
Infinite mine of adamant and gold. 
Valueless stones, and unimagined gems. 
And caverns on crystaUine columns poised 
With vegetable silver overspread ; 
Wells of unfathomed fire, and water springs 
Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed. 
Whose vapours clothe earth's monarch mountain- 
tops 
With kingly, ermine snow. The beams flash on 
And make appear the melancholy ruins 
Of cancelled cycles ; anchors, beaks of sliips ; 
Planks turned to marble ; quivers, helms, and spears. 
And gorgon-headcd targes, and the wheels 
Of scythed chariots, and the emblazonry 
Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts. 
Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems 
Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 



144 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



The wrecks beside of many a city vast, 
Whose population which the earth grew over 
Was mortal, but not human ; see, they lie 
Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons. 
Their statues, homes and fanes ; prodigious shapes 
Huddled in gray annihilation, spht. 
Jammed in the hard, black deep ; and over these, 
The anatomies of unknown winged things, 
And fishes which were isles of living scale, 
And serpents, bony chains, twisted around 
The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 
To which the tortuous strength of their last pangs 
Had crushed the iron crags ; and over these 
The jagged alligator, and the might 
Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once 
Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores, 
And wccd-ovcrgrown continents of earth, 
Increased and multiplied like summer worms 
On an abandoned corpse, till the blue glolie 
Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and they 
Yelled, gasped, and were abolished ; or some God 
Whose throne was in a comet, past, and cried. 
Be not ! And like my words they were no more. 

THE EARTH. 

The joy, the triumph, the deliglit, the madness ! 

The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness, 

The vaporous exultation not to be confined ! 
Ha ! Ha ! the animation of delight 
Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light, 

And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind. 

THE MOOX. 

Brother mine, calm wanderer, 

Happy globe of land and air, 
Some Spirit is darted Uke a beam from thee, 

Which penetrates my frozen fi-ame. 

And passes with the warmth of flame. 
With love, and odour, and deep melody 

Through mc, through me ! 

THE EABTH. 

Ha ! Ha ! the caverns of my hollow mountains, 
My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting fountains, 
Laugh with a vast and unextinguishable laughter. 
The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses. 
And the deep air's unmeasured wildernesses. 
Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing 
after. 

They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse, 
Who all our green and azure universe 
Threatenedst to muffle round with black destruc- 
tion, sending 
A solid cloud to rain hot thunder-stones. 
And splinter and knead down my children'shones. 
All I bring forth, to one void mass battering and 
blending. 

Until each craglike tower, and storied column. 
Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn, 
My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, and 
snow, and fire ; 
My sealike forests, every blade and blossom 
Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom, 
^^'ere stamped by thy strong hate into a lifeless 
mire. 



How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, drunk up 
By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup 

Drained by a desert troop, a little drop for all ; 
And from beneath, around, within, above. 
Filling thy void annihilation, love [ball. 

Bursts in like light on caves cloven by the thunder- 

THE MOOX. 

The snow upon my lifeless mountains 

Is loosened into living fountains. 
My solid oceans flow, and sing, and sliine : 

A spirit from my heart bursts forth, 

It clothes with unexpected birth 
My cold bare bosom : Oh ! it must be thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

Gazing on thee I feel, I know. 

Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow, 
And living shapes upon my bosom move : 

Music is in the sea and air. 

Winged clouds soar here and there. 
Dark with the rain new buds are dreammg of: 
'Tis love, all love ! 

THE EARTH. 

It interpenetrates my granite mass. 

Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pass, 

Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers ; 
Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis spread, 
It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, [bowers. 

They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest 
And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison 
With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen 

Out of the lampless caves of imimagined being: 
With earthquake shock and swiftness making 

shiver 
Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved for ever, 

Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-vanquished 
shadows, fleeing, 
Leave Man, who was a many-sided mirror, 
Which could distort to many a shape of error. 

This true fair world of things, a sea-reflecting love ; 
Which over all his kind, as the sun's heaven 
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and even 

Darting from starry depths radiance and light, doth 
move, 
Leave Man, even as a leprous child is left. 
Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft 

Of rocks, through which the might of healing 
springs is poured ; 
Then when it wanders home with rosy smile, 
Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile 

It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child restored. 
Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked thought. 
Of love and might to be divided not. 

Compelling the elements with adamantine stress; 
As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's gaze. 
The unquiet rejmblic of the maze [wilderness. 

Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free 
Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, 
Whose nature is its own divuie control. 

Where all tilings flow to all, as rivers to the sea ; 
Familiar acts are beautiful through love ; 
Laliour, and pain, and grief, in life's gi-een grove 

Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they 
could be ! 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



145 



His will, with all mean passions, bad delights, 
And selfish cares, its trembling satellites, 
A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey. 

Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm [whelm, 
Love rules, through waves which dare not over- 
Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign 
sway. 
All things confess his strength. Through the cold 
Of marble and of colour his dreams pass ; [mass 
Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes 
their children wear ; 
Language is a perpetual Orphic song. 
Which rules with Daedal harmony a throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and 
shapeless were. 

The lightning is his slave ; heaven's utmost deep 

Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep 
They pass before his eyes, are numbered and roll on ! 

The tempest is his steed, he strides the air ; 

And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare, 
Heaven, hast thou secrets I Man unveils me ; I 
have none. 

THE BfOON. 

The shadow of white death has past 

From my path in heaven at last, 
A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep ; 

And through my newly-woven bowers, 

Wander happy paramours, 
Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep 
Thy vales more deep. 

THE EARTH. 

As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold 
A half unfrozen dew-globe, green and gold, 

And crystalline, till it becomes a winged mist, 
And wanders up the vault of the blue day, 
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last ray 

Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst. 

THE MOON. 

Thou art folded, thou art lying 

In the light which is undying 
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile divine ; 

All suns and constellations shower 

On thee a light, a life, a power 
Which doth array thy sphere ; thou pourest thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

THE EARTH. 

I spin beneath my pyramid of night, 

Which points into the heavens dreaming delight, 

Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted sleep ; 
As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly sighing, 
Under the shadow of his beauty lying, 

Which round liis rest a watch of light and warmth 
doth keep. 

THE MOON. 

As in the soft and sweet eclipse, 

When soul meets soul on lovers' lips, 
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes arc dull ; 

So, when thy shadow falls on me, 

Then am I mute and still, by thee 
Covered ; of thy love, Orb most beautiful, 

Full, oh, too full ! 

19 



Thou art speeding round the sun, 

Brightest world of many a one ; 

Green and azure sphere which shinest 

With a light which is divinest 

Among all the lamps of Heaven 

To whom life and light is given; 

I, thy crystal paramour, 

Borne beside thee by a power 

Like the polar Paradise, 

Magnet-like, of lovers' eyes ; 

I, a most enamoured maiden. 

Whose weak brain is overladen 

With the pleasure of her love. 

Maniac-like around thee move 

Gazing, an insatiate bride, 

On thy form from every side, 

Like a Maenad, round the cup, 

Which Agave lifted up 

In the weird Cadmean forest. 

Brother, whereso'er thou soarest 

I must hurry, whirl and follow 

Through the heavens wide and hollow, 

Sheltered by the warm embrace 

Of thy soul from hungry space. 

Drinking from thy sense and sight 

Beauty, majesty, and might. 

As a lover or chameleon 

Grows like what it looks upon. 

As a violet's gentle eye 

Gazes on the azure sky 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds. 

As a gray and watery mist 

Glows like solid amethyst 
Athwart the western mountain it enfolds 

When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

THE EARTH. 

And the weak day weeps 

That it should be so. 
gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight 
Falls on me like thy clear and tender light 
Soothing the seamen, borne the summer night 

Through isles for ever calm ; 
gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce 
The caverns of my pride's deep universe, 
Charming the tiger joy, whose trampUngs fierce 

Made wounds which need thy balm. 

PATfTHEA. 

I rise as from a bath of sparkling water, 
A bath of azure light, among dark rocks. 
Out of the stream of sound. 

lONE. 

Ah me ! sweet sister. 
The stream of sound has ebbed away from us, 
And you pretend to rise out of its wave. 
Because your words fall like the clear sofl; dew 
Shaken fi-om a bathing wood-nymph's limbs and 
hair. 

PANTHEA. 

Peace, peace ! a mighty Power, which is as darkness. 

Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 

Is showered like night, and from witliin the air 

N 



146 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Bursts, like eclipse which had been gathered up 
Into the pores of sunlight : the bright visions, 
Wherein the singing spirits rode and shone, 
Gleam like pale meteors through a watery night. 

lONE. 

There is a sense of words upon mine ear. 

PANTHEA. 

A universal sound like words: Oh, list! 

■DEMOGOBGOX. 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, 
Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, 

Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost roll 

The love which paves thy path along the skies : 

THE EARTH. 

I hear : I am as a drop of dew that dies. 
demogohgon. 

Thou Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth 
With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; 

Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift birth 
Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony ; 

THE MOON. 

I hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee ! 

DEMOGOIIGOK. 

Ye kings of suns and stars ! Demons and Gods, 
^therial Dominations! who possess 

Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 

Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness : 

A VOICE FROM ABOVE. 

Our great Republic hears ; we are blest and bless. 

DEMOGORGOJf. 

Ye happy dead ! whom beams of brightest verse 
Are clouds to hide, not colours to portray. 

Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and suffered— 

A VOICE FROM BENEATH. 

Or as they 
Whom we have left, we change and pass away. 

DEMOGORGOJf. 

Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 

From man's high mind even to the central stone 
Of sullen lead; from Heaven's star-fretted domes 

To the dull weed some seaworm battens on : 



A CONFUSED VOICE. 

We hear : thy words waken Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Spirits ! whose homes are flesh : ye beasts and birds, 
Ye worms and fish ; ye living leaves and buds ; 

Lightning and wind ; and ye untameable herds, 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's solitudes. 

A VOICE. 

Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Man, who wert once a despot and a slave ; 

A dupe and a deceiver ; a decay ; 
A traveller from the cradle to the grave 

Through the dim night of this immortal day : 



Speak ! thy strong words may never pass away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

This the day, which down the void abysm 
At the Earthborn's spell yawns for Heaven's des- 
potism. 

And Conquest is dragged captive through the 
deep ; 
Love, from its awful throne of patient power 
In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour 

Of dread endurance, Irom the slippery, steep. 
And narrow verge of craglike agony, springs 
And folds over the world its healing wings. 

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and endurance, 
These are the seals of that most firm assurance 

Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; 
And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 
Mother of many acts and hours, should free 

The serpent that would clasp her with his 
length, 
These are the spells by which to reassume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite ; 
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; 

To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ; 
To love and bear; to hope till Hope creates 
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates : 
Neither to change, nor faulter, nor repent; 
This like the glory. Titan ! is to be 
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free ; 
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory ! 



NOTE ON THE PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



On the 12th of March, 1818, Shelley quitted 
England, never to return. His principal motive 
was the hope that his health would be improved by 
a milder climate ; he suffered very much during 



the winter pre\'ious to his emigration, and this 
decided his vacillating purpose. In December, 
1817, he had written from Marlow to a friend, 
saying : 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



147 



"My health has been materially worse. My 
feelings at intervals are of a deadly and torpid 
kind, or awakened to such a state of unnatural and 
keen excitement, that only to instance the organ 
of sight, I find the very blades of grass and the 
boughs of distant trees present themselves to me 
with microscopic distinctness. Towards evening I 
sink into a state of lethargy and inanimation, and 
often remain for hours on the sofa between sleep 
and waking, a prey to the most painful irritability 
of thought. Such, with little intermission, is my 
condition. The hours devoted to study are selected 
with vigilant caution from among these periods 
of endurance. It is not for this that I think of 
travelling to Italy, even if 1 knew that Italy would 
relieve me. But I have experienced a decisive 
pulmonary attack, and although at present it has 
passed away without any considerable vestige of 
its existence, yet this symptom sufficiently shows 
the true nature of my disease to be consumptive. 
It is to my advantage that this malady is in its 
nature slow, and, if one is sufficiently alive to its 
advances, is susceptible of cure from a warm climate. 
In the event of its assuming any decided shape, 
it would be my duty to go to Italy without delay. 
It is not mere health, but life, that 1 should seek, 
and that not for my own sake ; I feel I am capable of 
tramphng on all such weakness — but for the sake 
of those to whom my life may be a source of 
happiness, utility, security, and honour — and to 
some of whom my death might be all that is the 
reverse." 

In almost every respect his journey to Italy was 
advantageous. He left behind friends to whom he 
was attached, but cares of a thousand kinds, many 
springing from his lavish generosity, crowded 
round him in his native country : and, except the 
society of one or two friends, he had no compen- 
sation. The cUmate caused him to consume half 
his existence in helpless suffering. His dearest 
pleasure, the free enjoyment of the scenes of nature, 
was marred by the same circumstance. 

He went direct to Italy, avoiding even Paris 
and did not make any pause till he arrived at 
Milan. The first aspect of Italy enchanted 
Shelley; it seemed a garden of delight placed 
beneath a clearer and brighter heaven than any he 
had lived under before. He wrote long descriptive 
letters during the first year of his residence in Italy, 
which, as compositions, are the most beautiful in 
the world, and show how truly he appreciated and 
studied the wonders of nature and art in that divine 
land. 

The poetical spirit within him speedily revived 
with all the power and with more than all the 



beauty of his first attempts He meditated three 
subjects as the groundwork for lyrical Dramas. 
One was the story of Tasso ; of this a slight frag- 
ment of a song of Tasso remains. The other was 
one founded on the book of Job, which he never 
abandoned in idea, but of which no trace remains 
among his papers. The third was the " Prometheus 
Unbound." The Greek tragedians were now his 
most familiar companions in his wanderings, and: 
the sublime majesty of ^schylus filled him with 
wonder and delight. The father of Greek tragedy 
does not possess the pathos of Sophocles, nor the 
variety and tenderness of Euripides; the interest 
on which he founds his dramas is often elevated 
above human vicissitudes into the mighty passions 
and throes of gods and demigods — such fascinated 
the abstract imagination of Shelley. 

We spent a month at Milan, visiting the Lake 
of Como during that interval. Thence we passed 
in succession to Pisa, Leghorn, the Baths of Lucca, 
Venice, Este, Rome, Naples, and back again to 
Rome, whither we returned early in March, 1819. 
During all this time Shelley meditated the subject 
of his drama, and wrote portions of it. Other 
poems were composed during this interval, and 
while at the Bagni di Lucca he translated Plato's 
Symposium. But though he diversified his studies, 
his thoughts centred in the " Prometheus." At 
last, when at Rome, during a bright and beautiful 
spring, he gave up his whole time to the compo- 
sition. The spot selected for his study was, as he 
mentions in his priface, the mountainous ruins of 
the Baths of Caracalla. These are little knovra to 
the orduiary visiter at Rome. He describes them 
in a letter, with that poetry, and delicacy, and 
truth of description, which render bis narrated 
impressions of scenery of unequalled beauty and 
interest. 

At first he completed the drama in three acts. 
It was not until several months after, when at 
Florence, that he conceived that a fourth act, a 
sort of hymn of rejoicing in the fulfilment of the 
prophecies with regard to Prometheus, ought to be 
added to complete the composition. 

The prominent feature of Shelley's theory of 
the destiny of the human species was, that evil is 
not inherent in the system of the creation, but an 
accident that might be expelled. This also forms 
a portion of Christianity ; God made earth and man 
perfect, till he, by his fall, 

"Brought death into the world and all our wo." 

Shelley believed that mankind had only to will 
that there should be no evil, and there would be 
none. It is not my part in these notes to notice 



148 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



the arguments that have been urged against this 
opinion, but to mention the fact that he entertained 
it, and was indeed attached to it with fervent 
enthusiasm. That man could be so perfectionized 
as to be able to expel evil from his own nature, 
and from the greater part of the creation, was the 
cardinal point of his system. And the subject he 
loved best to dwell on, was the image of One war- 
ring with the Evil Principle, oppressed not only by 
it, but by all, even the good, who were deluded into 
considering evil a necessary portion of humanity. 
A victim full of fortitude and hope, and the spirit 
of triumph emanating from a reliance in the ulti- 
mate omnipotence of good. Such he had depicted 
in his last poem, when he made Laon the enemy 
and the victim of tyrants. He now took a more 
idealized image of the same subject. He followed 
certain classical authorities in figuring Saturn as the 
good principle, Jupiter the usurped evil one, and 
Prometheus as the regenerator, who, unable to 
bring manldnd back to primitive innocence, used 
knowledge as a weapon to defeat evil, by leading 
mankind beyond the state wherein they are sinless 
through ignorance, to that in which they are 
virtuous through wisdom. Jupiter punished the 
temerity of the Titan by chaining him to a rock of 
Caucasus, and causing a vulture to devour his still 
renewed heart. There was a prophecy afloat in 
heaven portending the foil of Jove, the secret of 
averting which was known only to Prometheus ; 
and the god offered freedom from torture on con- 
dition of its being communicated to him. Accord- 
ing to the mythological story, this referred to the 
offspring of Thetis, who was destined to be greater 
than his father. Prometheus at last brought 
pardon for his crime of enriching mankind with 
his gifts, by revealing the prophecy. Hercules 
killed the vulture and set him free, and Thetis was 
married to Peleus, the father of Achilles. 

Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this story to 
his peculiar views. The son, greater than his 
father, born of the nuptials of Jupiter and Thetis, 
was to dethrone Evil, and bring back a happier 
reign than that of Saturn. Prometheus defies the 
power of his enemy, and endures centuries of tor- 
ture, till the hour arrives when Jove, blind to the 
real event, but darkly guessing that some gi-eat 
good to himself will flow, espouses Thetis. At 
the moment, the Primal Power of the world drives 
him from his usurped throne, and Strength, in 
the person of Hercules, liberates Humanity, typi- 
fied in Prometheus, from the tortures generated by 
evil done or suffered. Asia, one of the Oceanides, 
is the wife of Prometheus — she was, according to 
other mythological interpretations, the same as 
Venus and Nature. When the Benefactor of 



Manldnd is liberated, Nature resumes the beauty 
of her prime, and is united to her husband, the 
emblem of the human race, in perfect and happy 
union. In the Fourth Act, the Poet gives further 
scope to his imagination, and idealizes the forms 
of creation, such as we know them, instead of such 
as they appeared to the Greeks. Maternal Earth, 
The mighty Parent, is superseded by the Spirit of 
the Earth — the guide of our Planet through the 
realms of sky — wliile his fair and weaker companion 
and attendant, the Spirit of the Moon, receives 
bliss from the anniliilation of Evil in the superior 
sphere. 

Shelley developes, more particularly in the lyrics 
of this drama, his abstruse and imaginative theories 
with regard to the Creation. It requires a mind 
as subtle and penetrating as his own to understand 
the mystic meanings scattered throughout the 
poem. They elude the ordinary reader by their 
abstraction and delicacy of distinction, but they 
are far from vague. It was his design to write 
prose metaphysical essays on the nature of Man, 
which would have served to explain much of what 
is obscure in his poetry ; a few scattered fragments 
of observations and remarks alone remain. He 
considered these philosophical views of mind and 
nature to be instinct with the intensest spirit of 
poetry. 

More popular poets clothe the ideal with familiar 
and sensible imagery. Shelley loved to idealize 
the real — to gift the mechanism of the material 
universe with a soul and a voice, and to bestow 
such also on the most delicate and abstract emotions 
and thoughts of the mind. Sophocles was his 
great master in this species of imagery. 

I find in one of his manuscript books some 
remarks on a line in the CEdipus Tyrannus, which 
shows at once the critical subtlety of Shelley's 
mind, and explains his apprehension of those 
" minute and remote distinctions of feeling, 
whether relative to external nature or the living 
beings which surround us," which he pronounces, 
in the letter quoted in the note to the Revolt of 
Islam, to comprehend all that is sublime in man. 

« In the Greek Shakspeare, Sophocles, we find 
the image, 

IloXXaj 6' Oc'ovj l\96i/Ta (ppouriSog nX'tnoi;. 

A line of almost unfathomable depth of poetry, 
yet how simple are the images in which it is 
arrayed. 

Coming to many ways in the wanderings of careful 

tlioiight. 
If the words bMg and Trhwoi; had not been used, 
the line might have been explained in a metapho- 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



149 



rical, instead of an absolute sense, as we say ' ways 
and means,' and wanderings, for error and con- 
fusion ; but they meant literally paths or roads, 
such as we tread with our feet ; and wanderings, 
such as a man makes when he loses himself in a 
desert, or roams from city to city, as CEdipus, the 
speaker of this verse, was destined to wander, bUnd 
and asking charity. What a picture does this Une 
suggest of the mind as a wilderness of intricate 
paths, wide as the universe, which is here made its 
symbol, a world within a world, which he, who 
seeks some knowledge with respect to what he 
ought to do, searches throughout, as he would 
search the external universe for some valued thing 
which was hidden from him upon its surface." 

In reading Shelley's poetry, we often find similar 
verses, resembling, but not imitating, the Greek 
in this species of imagery; for though he adopted 
the style, he gifted it with that originality of form 
and colouring which sprung from his own genius. 

In the Prometheus Unbound, Shelley fulfils the 
promise quoted from a letter in the Note on the 
Revolt of Islam.* 

The tone of the composition is calmer and more 
majestic, the poetry more perfect as a whole, and 
the imagination displayed at once more pleasingly 
beautiful and more varied and daring. The de- 
scription of the Hours, as they are seen in the cave 
of Demogorgon, is an instance of this — it fills the 
mind as the most charming picture — we long to 
see an artist at work to bring to our view the 

cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds, 
Which trample the dim winds : in each there stands 
A wild-eyed charioteer, urging tlieir flight. 
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, 
And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars : 
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink 

* While correcting the proof-sheets of that Po-m, it 
struck me that the Poet had indulged in an exaggerated 
view of the evils of restored despotism, which, however 
injurious and degrading, were less openly sanguinary 
than the triumph of anarchy, such as it appeared in 
France at the close of the last century. But at this 
time a book, " Scenes of Spanish Life," translated by 
Lie&tenant Crawford from the German of Dr. Huber, of 
Rostock, fell into my hands. The account of the tri- 
umph of the priests and the serviles, after the French 
invasion of Spain in 1823, bears a strong and frightful 
resemblance to some of the descriptions of the massacre 
of the patriotfi in the Revolt of Islam. 



With eager lips the wind of their own speed. 

As if the thing they loved fled on before, 

And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright locks 

Stream like a comet's flashing hair : they all 

Sweep onward. ' 

Through the whole Poem there reigns a sort 
of calm and holy spirit of love ; it soothes the 
tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till the 
prophecy is fialfilled, and Love, untainted by any 
evil, becomes the law of the world. 

England had been rendered a painful residence 
to Shelley, as much by the sort of persecution with 
which in those days all men of liberal opinions 
were visited, and by the injustice he had lately 
endured in the Court of Chanceiy, as by the symp- 
toms of disease which made him regard a visit to 
Italy as necessary to prolong his hfe. An exile, 
and strongly impressed with the feeling that the 
majority of his countrymen regarded him with 
sentiments of aversion, such as his own heart could 
experience towards none, he sheltered himself from 
such disgusting and painful thoughts in the calm 
retreats of poetry, and built up a world of his own, 
with the more pleasure, since he hoped to induce 
some one or two to believe that the earth might 
become such, did mankind themselves consent. 
The charm of the Roman climate helped to clothe 
his thoughts in greater beauty than they had ever 
worn before. And as he wandered among the 
ruins, made one with nature in their decay, or 
gazed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the 
Vatican, the Capitol, and the palaces of Rome, his 
soul imbibed forms of loveliness which became a 
portion of itself. There are many passages in the 
" Prometheus" which show the intense delight he 
received from such studies, and give back the im- 
pression with a beauty of poetical description 
peculiarly his own. He felt this, as a poet must 
feel when he satisfies himself by the result of his 
labours, and he wrote from Rome, " My Prometheus 
Unbound is just finished, and in a month or two 
I shall send it. It is a drama, with characters 
and mechanism of a kind yet unattempted, and I 
think the execution is better than any of my for- 
mer attempts." 

I may mention, for the information of the more 
critical reader, that the verbal alterations in this 
edition of Prometheus are made from a Ust of 
errata, vmtten by Shelley himself. 



END OF PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



n2 



THE CENCI 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



DEDICATION. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

Mx DEAR Friend, 
I INSCRIBE with your name, from a distant 
country, and after an absence whose months have 
seemed years, this, the latest of my literary efforts. 

Those writings which I have hitherto pubhshed, 
have been little else than visions which impersonate 
my own apprehensions of the beautiful and the 
just. I can also perceive in them the literary de- 
fects incidental to youth and impatience ; they are 
dreams of what ought to be, or may be. The 
drama which I now present to you is a sad reahty. 
I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an in- 
structor, and am content to paint, with such colours 
as my own heart furnishes, that which has been. 

Had I known a person more highly endowed than 
yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess, 
I had solicited for tliis work the ornament of his 
name. One more gentle, honourable, innocent 
and brave ; one of more exalted toleration for all 
who do and think evil, and yet himself more free 
from evil ; one who knows better how to receive, 
and how to confer a benefit, though he must ever 
confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler, 
and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer hfe 
and manners, I never knew ; I had already been 
fortunate in friendships when your name was 
added to the list. 

In that patient and in-econcilable enmity with 
domestic and political tyranny and imposture which 
the tenor of your life has illustrated, and which, 
had I health and talents, should illustrate mine, let 
us, comforting each other in our task, live and die. 

All happiness attend you ! 

Your affectionate friend. 

Pekct B. Shellet, 

Rome, Maij 29, 1819. 
150 



PREFACE. 



A MANUSCRIPT was communicated to me during 
my travels in Italy, which was copied from the ar- 
chives of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains 
a detailed account of the hoiTors which ended in 
the extinction of one of the noblest and richest 
families of that city, during the pontificate of Cle- 
ment Vni., in the year 1599. The story is, that 
an old man, having spent his life in debauchery 
and wickedness, conceived at length an implacable 
hatred towards his children ; which showed itself 
towards one daughter under the form of an inces- 
tuous passion, aggravated by every circumstance 
of cruelty and violence. This daughter, after long 
and vain attempts to escape fi-om what she con- 
sidered a perpetual contamination both of body and 
mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and 
brother to murder their common tyrant. The young 
maiden, who was urged to this tremendous deed 
by an impulse which overpowered its horror, was 
evidently a most gentle and amiable being ; a crea- 
ture farmed to adorn and be admired, and thus 
violently thwarted from her nature by the neces- 
sity of circumstances and opinion. The deed was 
quickly discovered, and in spite of the most earnest 
prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons 
in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The 
old man had, during his life, repeatedly bought his 
pardon from the Pope for capital crimes of the most 
enormous and unspeakable kind, at the price of a 
hundred thousand crowns; the death therefore of 
his victims can scarcely be accounted for by the 
love of justice. The Pope, among other motives 
for seventy, probably felt that whoever killed the 
Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and 
copious source of revenue.* Such a story, if told 
so as to present to the reader all the feelings of 
those who once acted it, their hopes and fears, their 
confidences and misgivings, their various interests, 
passions, and opinions, acting upon and with each 
other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, 
would be as a Ught to make apparent some of the 
most dark and secret caverns of the human heart. 

* The Papal Government formerly took the most ex- 
traordinary precautions against the publicity of facts 
which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own wick- 
edness and weakness ; so that the commun ication of the 
MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of some 
difficulty. 



THE CENCI. 



151 



On my arrival at Rome, I found that the story 
of the Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in 
Italian society, without awakening a deep and 
breathless interest; and that the feelings of the 
company never failed to incline to a romantic pity 
for the wrongs, and a passionate exculpation of the 
horrible deed to which they urged her, who has 
been mingled two centuries with the common dust. 
All ranks of people knew the outlines of this his- 
tory, and participated in the overwhelming interest 
which it seems to have the magic of exciting in the 
human heart. I had a copy of Guido's picture of 
Beatrice, which is preserved in the Colonna Palace, 
and my servant instantly recognised it as the por- 
trait of La Cenci. 

This national and universal interest which the 
story produces and has produced for two centuries, 
and among all ranks,of people in a great city, where 
the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, 
first suggested to me the conception of its fitness 
for a dramatic purpose. In fact, it is a tragedy 
which has already received, from its capacity of 
awakening and sustaining the sympathy of men, 
approbation and success. Nothing remained, as I 
imagined, but to clothe it to the apprehensions of 
my countrymen in such language and action as 
would bring it home to their hearts. The deepest 
and the sublimest tragic compositions, King Lear, 
and the two plays in which the tale of (Edipus is 
told, were stories which already existed in tradition, 
as matters of popular belief and interest, before 
Shakspeare and Sophocles made them famiharto the 
sympathy of all succeeding generations of mankind. 
This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently 
fearful and monstrous : any thing like a dry exhibi- 
tion of it on the stage would be insupportable. The 
person who would treat such a subject must in- 
crease the ideal, and diminish the actual horror of 
the events, so that the pleasure which arises from 
the poetry which exists in these tempestuous suf- 
ferings and crimes, may mitigate the pain of the 
contemplation of the moral deformity from which 
they spring. There must also be nothing attempted 
to make the exhibition subservient to what is vul- 
garly termed a moral purpose. The highest moral 
purpose aimed at in the highest species of the 
drama, is the teaching of the human heart, through 
its sympathies and antipathies, the knowledge of 
itself; in proportion to the possession of which 
knowledge every human being is wise, just, sin- 
cere, tolerant, and kind. If dogmas can do more, 
it is well : but a drama is no fit place for the en- 
forcement of them. Undoubtedly no person can 
be truly dishonoured by the act of another: and 
the fit return to make to the most enormous in- 
juries is kindness and forbearance, and a resolution 
to convert the injurer from his dark passions by 
peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, atonement, 
are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought 
in this manner, she would have been wiser and 
better; but she would never have been a tragic 
character : the few whom such an exhibition would 
have interested, could never have been sufficiently 
interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want 
of finding sympathy in their interest among the 



mass who surround them. It is in the restless and 
anatomizing casuistry with which men seek the 
justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done 
what needs justification; it is in the superstitious 
horror with which they contemplate" alike her 
wrongs and their revenge, that the dramatic 
character of what she did and suffered consists. 

I have endeavoured as nearly as possible to re- 
present the characters as they probably were, and 
have sought to avoid the error of making them ac- 
tuated by my own conceptions of right or wrong, 
false or true : thus under a thin veil converting 
names and actions of the sixteenth century into 
cold impersonations of my own mind. They are 
represented as Catholics, and as Cathohcs deeply 
tmged with religion. To a Protestant apprehen- 
sion there will appear something unnatural in the 
earnest and perpetual sentiment of the relations 
between God and man which pervade the tragedy 
of the Cenci. It will especially be startled at the 
combination of an undoubting persuasion of the 
truth of the popular religion, with a cool and de- 
termined perseverance in enormous guilt. But re- 
ligion in Italy is not, as in Protestant countries, a 
cloak to be worn on particular days; or a passport 
which those who do not wish to be railed at carry 
with them to exhibit; or a gloomy passion for 
penetrating the impenetrable mysteries of our be- 
ing, which terrifies its possessor at the darkness of 
the abyss to the brink of which it has conducted 
him. Religion co-exists, as it were, in the mind 
of an Italian Catholic with a faith in that of which 
all men have the most certain knowledge. It is in- 
tei-woven with the whole fabric of life. It is adora- 
tion, faith, submission, penitence, blind admiration ; 
not a rule for moral conduct. It has no necessary 
connection with any one virtue. The most atrocious 
villain may be rigidly devout, and, without any 
shock to establish faith, confess himself to be so. 
Religion pervades intensely the whole frame of 
society, and is, according to the temper of the mind 
which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an ex- 
cuse, a refuge; never a check. Cenci himself 
built a chapel in the court of his palace, and dedi- 
cated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, and estabfished 
masses for the peace of his soul. Thus in the first 
scene of the fourth act, Lucretia's design in expos- 
ing herself to the consequences of an expostulation 
with Cenci after having administered the opiate, 
was to induce him by a feigned tale to confess him- 
self before death ; this being esteemed by Catholics 
as essential to salvation ; and she only relinquishes 
her purpose when she perceives that her perse- 
verance would expose Beatrice to new outrages. 

I have avoided with great care in writing this 
play the introduction of what is commonly called 
mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be 
found a detached simile or a single isolated descrip- 
tion, unless Beatrice's description of the chasm ap- 
pointed for her father's murder should be judged 
to be of that nature.* 



* An idea in this speech was siifrgested by a most siib- 
lifne passage in "El Purgatorio de San Patiicio," of 
Calderon : the only plagiarism which I have intenlion- 
ally committed in the whole piece. 



153 



THE CENCI. 



In a dramatic composition the imagery and the 
passion should interpenetrate one another, the for- 
mer being reserved simply for the full developement 
and illustration of the latter. Imagination is as 
the immortal God which should assume flesh for the 
redemption of mortal passion. It is thus that the 
most remote and the most familiar imagery may 
alike be fit for dramatic purposes when employed 
in the illustration of strong feeling, which raises 
what is low, and levels to the apprehension that 
which is lofty, castmg over all the shadow of its 
own greatness. In other respects I have written 
more carelessly; that is, without an overfastidious 
and learned choice of words. In this respect, I 
entirely agree with those modern critics who assert, 
that in order to move men to true sympathy we 
must use the familiar language of men ; and that 
our great ancestors, the ancient English poets, are 
the writers, a study of whom might incite us to do 
that for our own age which they have done for 
theirs. But it must be the real language of men 
in general, and not that of any particular class, to 
whose society the writer happens to belong. So 
much for what I have attempted : I need not be 
assured that success is a very different matter; par- 
ticularly for one whose attention has but newly 
been awakened to the study of dramatic literature. 

I endeavoured whilst at Rome to observe such 
monuments of tliis stoiy as might be accessible to 
a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Co- 
lonna Palace is most admirable as a work of art : 
it was taken by Guido during her confinement in 
prison. But it is most interesting as a just repre- 
sentation of one of the loveliest specimens of the 
workmanship of Nature. There is a fixed and 
pale composure upon the features : she seems sad 
and stricken down m spirit, yet the despair thus 
expressed is lightened by the patience of gentle- 
ness. Her head is bound with folds of white 
drapery, from which the yellow strings of her 
golden hair escape and fall about her neck. The 



moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate ; the 
eyebrows are distinct and arched ; the lips have 
that permanent meaning of imagination and sensi- 
bility which suffering has not repressed, and which 
it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her 
forehead is large and clear ; her eyes, which we 
are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are 
swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beauti- 
fully tender and serene. In the whole mien there 
is a simplicity and dignity which, united with her 
exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow, are inexpres- 
sibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have 
been one of those rare persons in whom energy 
and gentleness dwell together without destroying 
one another : her nature was simple and profound. 
The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor 
and a svifferer, are as the mask and the mantle in 
which circumstances clothed her for her impersona- 
tion on the scene of the world. 

The Cenci Palace is of great extent; and, 
though in part modernized, there yet remains a 
vast and gloomy pile of feudal architecture in the 
same state as during the dreadfid scenes which are 
the subject of this tragedy. The palace is situated 
in an obscure corner of Rome, near the quarter of 
the Jews, and from the upper windows you see 
the immense ruins of Mount Palatine half hjdden 
under their profuse overgrowth of trees. There is 
a court in one part of the palace ^perhaps that in 
which Cenci built the chapel to St. Thomas,) sup- 
ported by granite columns and adorned with an- 
tique friezes of fine workmanship, and built up, 
according to the ancient Italian fashion, with bal- 
cony over balcony of open work. One of the 
gates of the palace, formed of immense stones, and 
leading through a passage dark and lofty, and 
opening into gloomy subterranean chambers, struck 
me particularly. 

Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no fur- 
ther information than that which is to be found in 
the manuscript. 



THE CENCI. 



153 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Count Fhancesco Cenci. 

GlACOMO, i 

Berxaudo, 3 
Caiidinal Camillo. 



his Sons. 



Orsino, a Prelate. 
Savella, the Pope's legate. 
Oltmpio, 
Marzi 



PIO, ) 

uo, 5 



Assassins. 



Andrea, Servant to Cenci. 
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants, 



LucRETiA, Wife o/Cenci, and step-mother of his children. 
Beatrice, his Daughter. 

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but chann-cs during- the Fourth Act to Petrella, a Castle among the 

Apulian Apennines. 
Time.— During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Count Cenci and Cardinal Camillo, 

CAMILLO. 

That matter of the murder is hushed up 

If you consent to yield his Holiness 

Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate. — 

It needed all my interest in the conclave 

To bend him to this point : he said that you 

Bought perilous impunity with your gold ; 

That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded 

Enriched the Church, and respited from hell 

An erring soul which might repent and live : 

But that the glory and the interest 

Of the high throne he fills, Uttle consist 

With making it a daily mart of guilt 

So manifold and hideous as the deeds 

Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. 



The third of my possessions — let it go ! 
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 
Had sent his architect to view the ground, 
Meaning to build a villa on my vines 
The next time I compounded with his uncle : 
I little thought he should outwit me so ! 
Henceforth, no witness — not the lamp — shall see 
That which the vassal threatened to divulge, 
Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. 
The deed he saw could not have rated higher 
Than his most worthless life : — it angers me ! 
Respited from Hell ! — So may the Devil 
Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope 
And his most charitable nephews, pray [Clement, 
That the Apostle Peter and the saints 
Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy 
Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length 

of days 
Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards 
Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
To which they show no title. 
20 



Oh, Count Cenci ! 
So much that thou might'st honourably live, 
And reconcile thyself with thine own heart 
And with thy God, and with the offended world. 
How hideously look deeds of lust and blood 
Through those snow-white and venerable hairs ! 
Your children should be sitting round you now, 
But that you fear to read upon their looks 
The shame and misery you have written there. 
Where is your wife"? Where is your gentle 

daughter ] 
Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things 

else 
■ Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. 
Why is she baiTed from all society 
But her own strange and uncomplaining vsTongs? 
Talk with me. Count, you know I mean you well. 
I stood beside your dark and fiery youth. 
Watching its bold and bad career, as men 
Watch meteors, but it vanished not — I marked 
Your desperate and remorseless manhood ; now 
Do I behold you, in dishonoured age. 
Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. 
Yet I have ever hoped you would amend. 
And in that hope have saved your life three tunes. 

CENCI. 

For which Aldohrandino owes 3'ou now 
My fief beyond the Pincian — Cardinal, 
One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth. 
And so we shall converse with less restraint. 
A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter. 
He was accustomed to frequent my house ; 
So the next day his wife and daughter came 
And asked if I had seen him ; and I smiled : 
I think they never saw him any more. 

CAMILLO. 

Thou execrable man, beware ! — • 

CEITCI. 

Of thee 1 



154 



THE CENCI. 



Nay, this is idle : — We should know each other. 

As to my character for what men call crime, 

Seeing I please my senses as I list, 

And vindicate that right with force or guile, 

It is a public matter, and I care not 

If I discuss it with you. I may speak 

Alike to you and my own conscious heart ; 

For you give out that you have half reformed me, 

Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent 

If fear should not ; both will, I do not doubt. 

All men delight in sensual luxury, 

All men enjoy revenge ; and most exult 

Over the tortures they can never feel ; 

Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. 

But I delight in nothing else. I love 

The sight of agony, and the sense of joy. 

When this shall be another's, and that mine. 

And I have no remorse, and little fear, 

Which are, I think, the checks of other men. 

This mood has grown upon me, until now 

Any design my captious fancy makes 

The picture of its wish, and it forms none 

But such as men like you would start to know, 

Is as my natural food and rest debaiTed 

Until it be accomplished. 



Art thou not 



Most miserable 1 



Why miserable 1 — 
No. I am what your theologians call 
Hardened ; which they must be in impudence, 
So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 
True, I was happier than I am, while yet 
Manhood remained to act the thing I thought ; 
While lust was sweeter than revenge ; and now 
Invention palls ; ay, we must all grow old : 
But that there yet remains a deed to act 
Whose horror might make sharp an appetite 
Duller than mine— ^I'd do, — I know not what. 
When I was young I thought of nothing else 
But pleasure ; and I fed on honey sweets : 
Men, by St. Thomas ! cannot live like bees, 
And I grew tired : yet, till I killed a foe, [groans, 
And heard his groans, and heard his children's 
Knew I not what delight was else on earth. 
Which now delights me little. I the rather 
Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals ; 
The dry, fixed eyeball ; the pale, quivering lip, 
Which tell me that the spirit weeps within 
Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. 
I rarely kill the body, which preserves, 
Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, 
Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear 
For hourly paui. 

CAMILIO, 

Hell's most abandoned fiend 
Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 
Speak to his heart as now you speak to rae ; 
I thank my God that I believe you not. 

Enter Andrea. 

ANDREA. 

My Lord, a gentleman fi-om Salamanca 
Would speak with you. 



CEXCI. 

Bid him attend me in the grand saloon. 

[Ezit Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell ; and I will pray 

Almighty God that thy false, impious words 

Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 

[Exit Camillo. 

CETfCI. 

The third of my possessions ! I must use 
Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword. 
Falls from my vrithered hand. But yesterday 
There came an order fi-om the Pope to make 
Fourfold provision for my cursed sons ; 
Whom I have sent fi-om Rome to Salamanca, 
Hoping some accident might cut them ofl"; 
And meaning, if I could, to starve them there. 
I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon 

them ! 
Bernardo and my wife could not be worse 
If dead and damned : — then, as to Beatrice — 

[^Looking around kim suspiciously. 
I think they cannot hear me at that door ; 
What if they should ] And yet I need not speak. 
Though the heart triumphs with itself in words. 
O, thou most silent air, that shall not hear 
What now I think ! Thou, pavement, which I ti-ead 
Towards her chamber, — ^let your echoes talk 
Of my imperious step, scorning surprise. 
But not of my intent ! — Andrea ! 

Enter Andrea. 
ANDREA. 

My lord ! 

CENCI. 

Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber 
This evening : — no, at midnight, and alone. 

{^Exeunt, 



SCENE IL 

.4 Oarden of the Cenci Palace. 

Enter Beatrice and Orsino, as in conversation. 

BEATRICE. 

Pervert not truth, 

Orsino. You remember where we held 

That conversation ; — ^nay, we see the spot 

Even fi-om this cypress ; — ^two long years are past 

Since, on an April midnight, underneath 

The moonlight ruins of Mount Palatine, 

I did confess to you my secret muid. 

ORSINO. 

You said you loved me then. 

BEATRICE. 

You are a priest ; 
Speak to me not of love. 

OKSINO. 

I may obtain 
The dispensation of the Pope to marry. 
Because I am a priest, do you believe 
Your image, as the hunter some struck deer. 
Follows me not whether I wake or sleep 1 



THE CENCI. 



155 



BEATRICE. 

As I have said, speak to me not of love ; 
Had you a dispensation, I have not ; 
Nor will I leave this home of misery 
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady 
To wrhom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, 
Must suffer what I still have strength to share. 
Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 
I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. 
Ours was a youthful contract, which you first 
Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. 
And thus I love you still, but holily, 
Even as a sister or a spirit might; 
And so I swear a cold fidelity. 
And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. 
You have a sly, equivocating vem 
That suits me not. — Ah, wretched that I am ! 
Where shall I turn 1 Even now you look on me 
As you were not my friend, and as if you 
Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles 
Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. 
Ah ! No, forgive me ; sorrow makes me seem 
Sterner than else my nature might have been ; 
I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, 
I And they forebode, — but what can they forebode 
Worse than I now endure 1 



All will be well. 
Is the petition yet prepared 1 You know 
My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice ; 
Doubt not but I wdll use my utmost skill 
So that the Pope attend to your complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

Your zeal for all I wish ? — Ah me, you are cold ! 
Your utmost skill — speak but one word — • 

(Aside.) Alas ! 
Weak and deserted creature that I am. 
Here I stand bickering with my only friend ! 

(To Orsino.) 
This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, 
Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 
From Salamanca, from my brothers there, 
And with this outward show of love he mocks 
His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy, 
For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, 
Which I have heard him pray for on his knees : 
Great God ! that such a father should be mine ! — 
But there is mighty preparation made. 
And all our kin, the Ccnci, will be there, 
And all the chief nobility of Rome. 
And he has bidden me and my pale mother 
Attire ourselves in festival array. 
Poor lady ! She expects some happy change 
In his dark spirit from this act ; I none. 
At supper I will give you the petition : 
Till when — farewell. 

ORSIXO. 

Farewell. 

[Exit BEATnicE. 
I know the Pope 
Will ne'er absolve mo from my priestly vow 
But by absolving me from the revenue 
Of many a wealthy see ; and, Beatrice, 



I think to win thee at an easier rate. 
Nor shall he read her eloquent petition : 
He might bestow her on some poor relation 
Of his sixth-cousin, as he did her sister, 
And I shall be debarred from all access. 
Then as to what she suffers from her father, 
In all this there is much exaggeration : 
Old men are testy, and will have their way ; 
A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, 
And live a free life as to wine or women, 
And with a peevish temper may return 
To a dull home, and rate his wife and children ; 
Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. 
I shall be well content, if on my conscience 
There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer 
From the devices of my love — A net 
From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear 
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, 
Whose beams anatomize me, nerve by nerve, 
And lay me bare, and make me blush to see 
My hidden thoughts. — Ah, no ! a friendless girl 
Who clings to me, as to her only hope : — 
I were a fool, not less than if a panther 
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye, 
If she escape me. 

[Exit. 



SCENE III. 

^ magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. 

.S Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lucretia, Beatrice, 
Oksino, Camillo, Nobles. 

CENCI. 

Welcome, my fiicnds and kinsmen ; welcome ye, 

Princes and Cardinals, Pillars of the church, 

Whose presence honours our festivity. 

I have too long lived like an anchorite, 

And, in my absence fi'om your merry meetings. 

An evil word is gone abroad of me ; 

But I do hop^ that you, my noble friends, 

When you have shared the entertainment here, 

And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given. 

And we have pledged a health or two together. 

Will think me flesh and blood as well as you ; 

Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so. 

But tender-heaited, meek and pitiful. 

FIRST GUEST. 

In truth, my lord, you seem too fight of heart, 
Too sprightly and companionable a man. 
To act the deeds that rumour pins on you. 

[To his companion. 
I never saw such blithe and open cheer 
In any eye ! 

SECOND GUEST. 

Some most desired event, 
In which we all demand a common joy. 
Has brought us hither ; let us hear it. Count. 

CENCI. 

It is indeed a most desired event. 
If, when a parent, from a parent's heart. 
Lifts from this earth to the great Father of all 
A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep. 



156 



THE CENCI. 



And when he rises up from dreaming it ; 
One supplication, one desire, one hope, 
That he would grant a wish for his two song, 
Even all that he demands in their regard — 
And suddenly, beyond his dearest hope, 
It is accomplished, he should then rejoice, 
And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast, 
And task their love to grace his merriment, 
Then honour me thus far — for I am he. 

BKATRICK (to LuCIlKTIA.) 

Great God ! How horrible ! Some dreadful ill 
Must have befallen my brothers. 

tUCRETIA. 

Fear not, child. 
He speaks too frankly. 

BEATniCK. 

Ah ! My blood runs cold. 
I fear that wicked laughter round his eye. 
Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. 

CEXCI. 

Here are the letters brought from Salamanca ; 

Beatrice, read them to your mother. God, 

I thank thee ! In one night didst thou perform, 

By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 

My disobedient and rebellious sons 

Are dead ! — Why dead ! — What means this change 

of cheer 1 
You hear me not, I tell you they are dead ; 
And they will need no food or raiment more : 
The tapers that did light them the dark ways 
Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not 
Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. 
Rejoice with me — my heart is wondrous glad. 

BEATRICE. (LucRETiA sinks, half fainting , ■ 
Bkatrice supports her.') 
It is not true ! — ^Dcar lady, pray look up. 
Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, 
He would not live to boast of such a boon. 
Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false. 

CENCI. 

Ay, as the word of God ; whom here I call 
To witness that I speak the sober truth ; — 
And whose most favouring providence was shown 
Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco 
Was kneehng at the mass, with sixteen others, 
When the Church fell and crushed him to a mummy ; 
The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofino 
Was stabbed in error by a jealous man. 
Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival ; 
All in the self-same hour of the same night ; 
Which shows that Heaven has special care of me. 
I beg those friends who love me, that they mark 
The day a feast upon their calendars. 
It was the twenty-seventh of December : 
Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. 

\Tke assembly appear confused ; several of the 
ffuests rise. 

FIRST GUEST. 

Oh, horrible ! I will depart. — • 

SECOND GUEST. 

And I.— 



THIRD GUEST. 

No, stay ! 
I do believe it is some jest; though faith, 
'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. 
I think his son has married the Infanta, 
Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado: 
'Tis but to season some such news ; stay, stay ! 
I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. 

CENCI (^filling a bowl tf wine, and lifting it tip.) 

Oh, thou bright wine, whose purple splendour leaps 

And bubbles gayly in this golden bowl 

Under the lamplight, as my spirits do. 

To hear the death of my accursed sons ! 

Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood, 

Then would I taste thee like a sacrament. 

And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell ; 

Who, if a father's curses, as men say. 

Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, 

And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, 

Now triumphs in my triumph ! — But thou art 

Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy. 

And I will taste no other wine to-night. 

Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 

A GUEST Q-ising.') 

Thou wretch ! 
Will none among this noble company 
Check the abandoned villain 1 
camillo. 

For God's sake, 
Let me dismiss the guests ! You are insane, 
Some ill will come of this. 

SECOND GUEST. 

Seize, silence him ! 



FIRST GUEST. 



I will ! 



THIRD GUEST. 

And I ! 

CENCI (addressing those who rise with a threaten- 
ing gesture.) 
Who moves 1 Who speaks ? 

[Turjiing- to the Company. 
'Tis nothing. 
Enjoy yourselves. — Beware ! for my revenge 
Is as the sealed commission of a king. 
That kills, and none dare name the murderer. 

[The Banquet is broken vp ; several of the Ouests 
are departing. 

BEATRICE. 

I do entreat you, go not, noble guests ; 
What although tyranny and impious hate 
Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair 1 
What if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs 
Who tortures them, and triump;;s 1 What, if we, 
The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh, 
His children and his wife, whom he is bound 
To love and shelter 1 Shall we therefore find 
No refuge in this merciless wide world? 
Oh, think what deep wrongs must have blotted out 
First love, then reverence in a child's prone mind. 
Till it thus vanquished shame and fear! Oh, think! 
I have borne much, and lussed the sacred hand 



THE CENCI. 



157 



Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its 

stroke 
Was perhaps some paternal chastisement ! 
Have excused much, doubted ; and when no doubt 
Remained, have souglit by patience, love and tears, 
To soften him ; and when this could not be, 
I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights. 
And hfted up to God, the father of all, 
Passionate prayers : and when these were not heard, 
I .have still borne ; — until I meet you here. 
Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast 
Given at my brother's death. Two yet remain. 
His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, 
Ye may soon share such merriment again 
As fathers make over their children's graves. 
Oh ! Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman ; 
Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain ; 
Camillo, thou art chief justiciary ; 
Take us away! 

cExci (He has been conversing with camillo 
during the first part of Beatrice's speech; 
he hears the conclusion and now advances.) 

I hope my good friends here 
Will think of their own daughters — or perhaps 
Of their own throats — before they lend an ear 
To this wild girl. 

BEATRICE (not noticing the words ofCEnci.) 
Dare no one look on me ] 
None answer ] Can one tyrant overbear 
The sense of many best and wisest men 7 
Or is it that I sue not in some form 
Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit 1 
Oh, God ! that I were buried with my brothers ! 
And that the flowers of this departed spring 
Were fading on my grave ! And that my father 
Were celebrating now one feast for all ! 

CAMILLO. 

A bitter wish for one so young and gentle ? 
Can we do nothing? — 

COLON-XA. 

Nothing that I see. 
Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy ; 
Yet I would second any one. 



A CARDINAL. 



And I. 



CENCI. 

Retire to your chamber, insolent girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire thou, impious man ! Ay, hide thyself 
Where never eye can look upon thee more ! 
Wouldst thou have honour and obedience, 
Who art a torturer] Father, never dream, 
Though thou mayst overbear this company, 

But ill must come of ill Frown not on me ! 

Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks 
My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat ! 
Cover thy face from every living eye. 
And start if thou but hear a human step : 
Seek out some dark and silent corner, there, 
Bow thy white head before offended God, 
And we will kneel around, and fei-vently 
Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. 



My friends, I do lament this insane girl 

Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. 

Good night, farewell ; I will not make you longer 

Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. 

Another time. — 

l^Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatbice. 
My brain is swimming round ; 
Give me a bowl of wine ! 

(^To Beatrice.) Thou painted viper! 
Beast that thou art I Fair and yet terrible ! 
I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame, 
Now get thee from my sight ! 

[Exit Beatrice. 
Here, Andrea, 
Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said 
I would not drink this evening, but I must ; 
For strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
With thinking what I have decreed to do. 

[Drinking the wine. 
Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stem, 
And age's firm, cold, subtle villany ; 
As if thou wert indeed my children's blood 
Which I did thirst to drink. The charm works 

well ! 
It must be done, it shall be done, I swear ! 

[Exit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 

j?7t Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 

Enter Lucretia and Bernardo, 
lucretia. 
Weep not, my gentle boy ; he struck but me. 
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he 
Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. 
Oh, God Almighty, do thou look upon us. 
We have no other friend but only thee ! 



Yet weep not : though I love you as my own, 
I am not your true mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh, more, more 
Than ever mother was to any child. 
That have you been to me ! Had he not been 
My father, do you think that I should weep ! 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas ! poor hoy, what else couldst thou have done ! 
o 



— 1 



158 



THE CENCl 



Enter Beatrice. 
BEATRICE (m a hurried voice.') 
Did he pass this way 1 Have you seen him, brother 1 
Ah ! no, that is his step upon the stairs ; 
'Tis nearer now ; his hand is on the door : 
Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
A duteous child, now save me ! Thou, great God, 
Whose image upon earth a father is. 
Dost thou indeed abandon me 1 He comes; 
Tlie door is opening now ; I see his face ; 
He frowns on otliers, but he smiles on me, 
Even as he did after the feast last night 

Enter a Servant. 
Almighty God, how merciful thou art ! 
'Tis but Orsino's servant. Well, what news 1 

SERVANT. 

My master bids me say, the Holy Father 
Has sent back your petition thus unopened. 

[Oivhi^ a Paper. 
And he demands at what hour 'twere secure 
To visit you again ] 

tUCRETIA. 

At the Ave Mary. 

[Eiit Servant. 
So, daughter, our last hope has failed ; ah me, 
How pale you look ! you tremble, and you stand 
Wrapt in some fixed and fearful meditation, 
As if one thought wei-e over strong for you: 
Your eyes have a chill glare ; oh, dearest child ! 
Are you gone mad 1 If not, pray speak to mc. 

BEATRICE. 

You see I am not mad ; I speak to you. 

LUCRETIA. 

You talked of something that your father did 
After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse 
Than when he smiled, and cried. My sons are dead ! 
And every one looked in his neighbour's face 
To see if others were as white as he 1 
At the first word he spoke I felt the blood 
Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance ; 
And when it past I sat all weak and wild ; 
Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words 
Check'd his unnatural pride ; and I could see 
The devil was rebuked that Hves in him. 
Until this hour thus you have ever stood 
Between us and your father's moody wrath 
Like a protecting presence : your firm mind 
Has been our only refuge and defence ; 
What can have thus subdued it 1 What can now 
Have given you that cold melancholy look, 
Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear ? 

BEATRICE. 

What is it that you say 1 I was just thinking 
'Twere better not to struggle any more. 
Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, 
Yet never — ! before worse comes of it, 
'Twere wise to die : it ends in that at last. 

IXTCRETIA. 

Oh, talk not so, dear child ! Tell me at once. 
What did your father do or say to you 1 



He stayed not after that accursed feast 

One moment in your chamber. — Speak to me. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us ! 

BEATRICE (speaking very slowly with a forced 
calmness.') 
It was one word, mother, one little word ; 
One look, one smile. [midhj. 

Oh ! he has trampled me 
Under his feet, and made the blood stream down 
My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all 
Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh 
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve. 
And we have eaten. He has made me look 
On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 
Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs. 
And I have never yet despaired — but now ! 
What would I say 1 

\^Recovering herself. 
Ah ! no, 'tis nothing new. 
The sufferings we all share have made me wild ; 
He only struck and cursed me as he passed ; 
He said, he looked, he did — nothing at all 
Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty, 
I should preserve my senses for your sake. 

LUCRETIA. 

Nay, Beatrice ; have courage, my sweet girl. 

If any one despairs it should be I, 

Who loved him once, and now must live with him 

Till God in pity call for him or me. 

For you may, like your sister, find .some husband. 

And smile, years hence, with children round your 

knees ; 
Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil, 
Shall be remembered only as a dream. 

BEATRICE. 

Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband. 

Did you not nurse me when my mother died ? 

Did you not shield me and that dearest boy ? 

And had we any other friend but you 

In infancy, with gentle words and looks. 

To win our father not to murder us '^ 

And shall I now desert you ? May the ghost 

Of my dead mother plead against my soul. 

If I abandon her who filled the place 

She left, with more even than a mother's love ! 

BERNARDO. 

And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed 
I would not leave you in this wretchedness. 
Even though the Pope should make me free to Uve 
In some blithe place, like others of my age. 
With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. 
Oh, never think that I will leave you, mother ! 

LUCRETIA. 

My dear, dear children ! 

Enter Cenci, suddenly. 

What ! Beatrice here 1 

Come hither ! 

[S/je shrinks back, and covers her face. 

Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair ; 
Look up ! Why yesternight you dared to look 



THE CENCI. 



159 



With disobedient insolence upon me, 
Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 
On what I meant ; whilst I then sought to hide 
That which I came to tell you — ^but in vain. 

BEATRICE (wildly staggering towards the door.) 
Oh, that the earth would gape. Hide mc, oh God ! 

CENCI. 

Then it was I whose inarticulate words 
Fell from my lips, who with tottering steps 
Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. 
Stay, I command you ! From this day and hour 
Never again, I think, with fearless eye, 
And brow superior, and unaltered cheek. 
And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, 
Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind ; 
Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber. 
Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed mother, 

[To Bernahdo. 
Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate ! 

[Ecceitjjt Beatrice and Bernardo. 
(^Aside.) So much has passed between us as must 
Me bold, her fearful. — 'Tis an awful thing [make 
To touch such mischief as I now conceive : 
So men sit shivering on the dewy bank 
And try the chill stream with their feet ; once in — • 
How the delighted spirit pants for joy ! 

LucRETiA (advancing timidly towards him.) 
Oh, husband ! Pray forgive poor Beatrice, 
She meant not any ill. 

CENCr. 

Nor you perhaps '^ [rote 
Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by 
Parricide with his alphabet "? Nor Giacomo ] 
Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stin'ed 
Enmity up against me with the Pope 7 
Whom in one night merciful God cut off: 
Innocent lambs ! They thought not any ill. 
You were not here conspiring ] you said nothing 
Of how I might be dungeoned as a madman ; 
Or be condemned to death for some offence. 
And you would be the witnesses 1 — This failing, 
How just it were to hire assassins, or 
Put sudden poison in my evening drink "? 
Or smother me when overcome by wine 1 
Seeing we had no other judge but God, 
And he had sentenced me, and there were none 
But you to be the executioners 
Of his decree enrcgistered in heaven 1 
Oh, no ! You said not this 1 

LtJCRETIA. 

So help me God, 
I never thought the things you charge me with ! 



If you dare speak that wicked lie again, 
I'll kill you. What ! it was not by your counsel 
That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night 1 
You did not hope to stir some enemies 
Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn 
What every nerve of you now trembles at 1 
You judged that men were bolder than they are ; 
Few dare to stand between their grave and me. 



LUCRETIA. 



Look not so dreadfully ! by my salvation 
I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; 
Nor do I think she designed any thing 
Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. 



Blaspheming liar ! You are damned for this ! 
But I will take you where you may persuade 
The stones you tread on to deliver you : 
For men there shall be none but those who' dare 
All things ; not question that which I command. 
On Wednesday next I shall set out : you know 
That savage rock, the castle of Petrella 1 
'Tis safely walled, and moated round about: 
Its dungeons under ground, and its thick towers 
Never told tales ; though they have heard and seen 
What might make dumb things speak. Why do 

you linger "? 
Make speediest preparation for the journey ! 

[Exit LUCKETIA. 

The all-beholding sun yet shines ; I hear 
A busy stir of men about the streets ; 
I see the bright sky through the window panes : 
It is a garish, broad, and peering day ; 
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears ; 
And every little comer, nook, and hole, 
Is penetrated with the insolent light. 
Come, darkness ! Yet, what is the day to me 1 
And wherefore should I wish for night, who do 
A deed which shall confound both night and day 1 
'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist 
Of horror : if there be a sun in heaven. 
She shall not dare to look upon its beams ; 
Nor feel its warmth. Let her, then, wish for night ; 
The act I think shall soon extinguish all 
For me : I bear a darker, deadher gloom 
Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air. 
Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, 
In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
Towards my purpose. — Would that it were done ! 

[Exit. 



SCENE n. 

./? Chamber in the Vatican. 
Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conversation. 

CAMILLO. 

There is an obsolete and doubtful law, 

By which you might obtain a bare provision 

Of food and clothing. 



Nothing more 1 Alas ! 
Bare must be the provision which strict law 
Awards, and aged sullen avarice pays. 
Why did my father not apprentice me 
To some mechanic trade 1 I should have then 
Been trained in no highborn necessities 
Which I could meet not by my daily toil. 
The eldest son of a rich nobleman 
Is heir to all his incapacities ; 
He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, 



160 



THE CENCI. 



Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once 

From tlirice-drivcd beds of down, and delicate food, 

A hundred servants, and six palaces, 

To that which nature doth indeed require — 

CAMILLO. 

Nay, there is reason in your plea ; 'twere hard. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis hard for a firm man to hear ; but I 
Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father, 
Without a bond or witness to the deed : 
And children, who inherit her fine senses, 
The fairest creatures in this breathing world ; 
And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, 
Do you not think the Pope would interpose 
And stretch authority beyond the law 1 

CAMILLO. 

Though your peculiar case is hard I know 

The Pope will not divert the course of law. 

After that impious feast the other night 

I spoke with him, and urged him then to check 

Your father's cruel hand ; he frowned, and said, 

" Children are disobedient, and they sting 

Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, 

Requiting years of care with contumely. 

I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; 

His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, 

And thus he is exasperated to ill. 

In the great war between the old and young, 

I. who have white hairs and a tottering body, 

Will keep at least blameless neutrality." 

Enter Oksino. 
You, my good lord Orsino, heard those words. 

ORSINO. 

What words 1 

GIACOMO. 

Alas, repeat them not again ! 
There then is no redress for me ; at least 
None but that which I may achieve myself, 
Since I am driven to the brink. But, say, 
My innocent sister and my only brother 
Are dying underneath my father's eye. 
The memorable torturers of this land, 
Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 
Never inflicted on their meanest slave 
What these endure ; shall they have no protection ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why, if they would petition to the Pope, 
I see not how he could refuse it — yet 
He holds it of most dangerous example 
In aught to weaken the paternal power, 
Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. 
I pray you now excuse me. I have business 
That will not bear delay. 

lExil Camillo. 

GIACOMO. 

But you, Orsino, 
Have the petition ; wherefore not present it ! 

onsiNO. 
I have presented it, and backed it with 
My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; 



It was returned unanswered. I doubt not 
But that the strange and execrable deeds 
Alleged in it — in truth they might well baffle 
Any behef — have turned the Pope's displeasure 
Upon the accusers from the criminal : 
So I should guess from what Camillo said. 

GIACOMO. 

My friend, that palace-walking devil, Gold, 

Has whispered silence to his Holiness : 

And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. 

What should we do but strike ourselves to death 1 

For he who is our murderous persecutor 

Is shielded by a father's holy name, 

Or I would — • 

[Stops abruptly. 
onsiNO. 
What ? Fear not to speak your thought. 
Words are but holy as the deeds they cover : 
A priest who has foresworn the God he serves ; 
A judge who makes the truth weep at his decree ; 
A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, 
But as the mantle of some selfish guile ; 
A father who is all a tyrant seems, 
Were the profaner for his sacred name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask me not what I think ; the unwilling brain 
Feigns often what it would not ; and we trust 
Imagination with such phantasies 
As the tongue dares not fashion into words ; 
Which have no words their horror makes them 
To the mind's eye. My heart denies itself [dim 
To think what you demand. 

ORSINO. 

But a friend's bosom 
Is as the inmost caves of our own mind. 
Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day. 
And from the all-communicating air. 
You look what I suspected — • 

GIACOMO. 

Spare me now! 
I am as one lost in a midnight wood. 
Who dares not ask some harmless passenger 
The path across the wilderness, lest he, 
As my thoughts are, should be — a murderer. 
I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. 
But now my heart is heavy, and would take 
Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. 
Pardon me, that I say farewell — farewell ! 
I would that to my own suspected self 
I could address a word so full of peace. 

ORSIJfO. 

Farewell ! — Be your thoughts better or more bold. 

[Exit GiACOMO. 
I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 
To feed his hope with cold encouragement : 
It fortunately serves my close designs 
That 'tis a trick of this same family 
To analyze their own and other minds. 
Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 
Dangerous secrets : for it tempts our powers. 
Knowing what must be thought, and may be done, 
Into the depth of darkest purposes : 



THE CENCI. 



161 



So Cenci fell into the pit ; even I, 

Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, 

And made me sluink from what I cannot shun, 

Show a poor figure to my own esteem, 

To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do 

As little mischief as I can ; that thought 

Shall fee the accuser conscience. 

[Jlfter a pause. 
Now what harm 
If Cenci should be murdered T — Yet, if murdered. 
Wherefore by me 1 And what if I could take 
The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 
In such an action ? Of all earthly things 
I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words ; 
And such is Cenci : and while Cenci lives 
His daughter's dowry were a secret grave 
If a priest wins her. — Oh, fair Beatrice ! 
Would that I loved thee not, or, loving thee, 
Could but despise danger, and gold, and all 
That frowns between my wish and its effect, 
Or smiles beyond it ! There is no escape : 
Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar, 
And follows me to the resort of men. 
And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, 
So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire ; 
And if I strike my damp and dizzy head, 



My hot palm scorches it : her very name. 

But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart 

Sicken and pant ; and thus unprofitably 

I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights, 

Till weak imagination half possesses 

The self-created shadow. Yet much longer 

Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours : 

From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 

I must work out my own dear purposes. 

I see, as from a tower, the end of all : 

Her father dead ; her brother bound to me 

By a dark secret, surer than the grave ; 

Her mother scared and unexpostulating 

From the dread manner of her wish aciiieved : 

And she ! — Once more take courage, my faint 

heart; 
What dai-es a friendless maiden matched with thee ? 
I have such foresight as assures success ; 
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever. 
When dread events are near, stir up men's minds 
To black suggestions ; and he prospers best, 
Not who becomes the instrument of ill. 
But who can flatter the dark spirit, that meikes 
Its empire and its prey of other hearts, 
Till it become his slave — as I will do. 

lExit. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 

.^n Apartment in the Cenci Palace, 
LucRETiA ; to her enter Beatrice. 

BEATRICE (she enters staggeringj and speaks 
wildly.') 

Reach me that handkerchief! — My brain is hurt; 

My eyes are full of blood ; just wipe them for me — 

I see but indistiiictly. — 

lUCHETIA. 

My sweet child. 
You have no wound ; 'tis only a cold dew 
That starts from your dear brow. — Alas ! alas ! 
What has befallen 1 

BEATRICE. 

How comes this hair undone 1 
Its wandering strings must be what blind me so. 
And yet I tied it fast. — O, horrible ! 
The pavement sinks under my ^et ! The walls 
Spin round ! I see a woman weeping there, 
And standing calm and motionless, whilst I 
Slide giddily as the world reels. — My God ! 
The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood ! 
The sunshine on the floor is black ! The air 
Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe 
In charnel-pits ! Pah ! I am choked ! There creeps 
A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
About me — 'tis substantial, heavy, thick ; 
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
My fingers and my limbs to one another, 
And eats mto my sinews, and dissolves 
21 



My flesh to a pollution, poisoning 
The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life ! 
My God ! I never knew what the mad felt 
Before ; for I am mad beyond all doubt ! 

[More wildly. 
No, I am dead ! These putrefying limbs 
Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul. 
Which would burst forth into the wandering air ! 

[A pause. 
What hideous thought was that I had even now ] 
'Tis gone ; and yet its burden remains here 
O'er these dull eyes — upon this weary heart ! 
O, world ! 0, life ! 0, day ! O, misery ! 

LUCHETIA. 

What ails thee, my poor child 1 She answers not: 
Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain. 
But not its cause; sufTering has dried away 
The source from which it sprung. — 

BEATRICE {franticly!) 

Like Parricide- 
Misery has killed its father : yet its father 
Never like mine — O, God ! What thing am H 

LUCHETIA. 

My dearest child, what has your father done ] 

BEATRICE (doubtfully^ 
Who art thou, questioner 1 I have no father. 

[Aside. 
She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me. 
It is a piteous office. 

. o2 



162 



THE CENCI. 



[To LtiCKETiA in a slow, subdued voice. 
Do you know, 
I thought I was that wi-etched Beatrice 
Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales 
From hall to hall by the entangled hair ; 
At others, pens up naked in damp cells 
Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, 
Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story 
So did I overact in my sick dreams, 
That I imagined — no, it cannot be ! 
Horrible things have been in this wild world, 
Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange 
Of good and ill ; and worse have been conceived 
Than ever there was found a heart to do. 
But never fancy imaged such a deed 
As— 

[Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself. 

Who art thou 1 Swear to me, ere I die 
With fearful expectation, that indeed 
Thou art not what thou seemest — .Mother ! 



lUCEETIA. 



Oh! 



My sweet child, know you — 

BEATRICE. 

Yet speak it not : 
For then if this be truth, that other too 
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth. 
Linked with each lasting circumstance of life, 
Never to change, never to pass away. 
Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace ; 
Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. 
I have talked some wild words, but will no more. 
Mother, come near me : from this point of time, 

I am — 

[Her voice dies away faintly. 
LTJCRETIA. 

Alas ! what has befallen thee, child 1 
What has thy father done ] 

BEATRICE. 

What have I done 1 
Am I not innocent 1 Is it my crime 
That one with white hair, and imperious brow, 
Who tortured me from my forgotten years. 
As parents only dare, should call himself 
My father, yet should be ! — Oh, what am I? 
What name, what place, what memoiy shall be 
What retrospects, outliving even despair? [minel 

LUCUETIA. 

He is a violent tyrant, surely, child : 

We know that death alone can make us free ; 

His death or ours. But what can he have done 

Of deadlier outrage or worse injury "? 

Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth 

A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, 

Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine 

With one another. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis the restless life 
Tortured within them. If I try to speak 
I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done ; 
What, yet I know not — something which shall make 
The thing that I have suffered but a shadow 
In the dread lightning which avenges it ; 
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 



The consequence of what it cannot cure. 
Some such thing is to be endured or done : 
When I know what, I shall be still and calm, 
And never any thing will move me more. 
But now ! — Oh blood, which art my father's blood, 
CircUng through these contaminated veins, 
If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth. 
Could wash away the crime, and punishment 
By which I sutler — no, that cannot be ! 
Many might doubt there were a God above 
Who sees and permits evil, and so die : 
That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 

lUCRETTA. 

It must indeed have been some bitter wrong ; 
Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh ! my lost child. 
Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 
Thy suflerings from my fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I hide them not. 
What are the words which you would have me 

speak ] 
I, who can feign no image in my mind 
Of that which has transformed me. I, whose 
Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up [thought 
In its own formless horror. Of all words. 
That minister to mortal intercourse. 
Which wouldst thou hear 1 For there is none to tell 
My misery : if another ever knew 
Aught like to it, she died as I will die. 
And left it, as I must, without a name. 
Death ! Death ! Our law and our religion call thee 
A punishment and a reward. Oh, which 
Have I deserved 1 

mCRETIA. 

The peace of innocence ; 
Till in your season you be called to heaven. 
Whate'er you may have suffered, you have done 
No evil. Death must be the punishment 
Of crime, or the reward of trampling down 
The thorns which God has strewed upon the path 
Which leads to immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay, death — ■ 
The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God, 
Let me not be bewildered while I judge. 
If I must live day after day, and keep 
These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy spirit, 
As a foul den from which what thou abhorrest 
May mock thee, unavenged — it shall not be ! 
Self-murder — no that might be no escape, 
For thy decree yawns like a Hell between 
Our will and it. — Oh ! in this mortal world 
There is no vindication and no law. 
Which can adjudge and execute the doom 
Of that through which I suffer. 
Enter Obsino. 
(She approachesUm solemnly.) Welcome, Friend! 
I have to tell you that, since last we met, 
I have endured a wrong so great and strange. 
That neither Ufe nor death can give me rest. 
Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds 
Which have no form, suflerings which have no 
tongue. 



THE CENCI. 



163 



onsiNO. 
And what is he who has thus injui'eJ you 1 

BEATRICE. 

The man they call my father : a dread name. 

OUSIlfO, 

It cannot be — 

BHATmCE. 

What it can he, or not, 
Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ; 
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die ; but a religious awe 
Eestrains me, and the dread lest death itself 
Might be no refuge from the consciousness 
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak ! 

ORSIJfO, 

Accuse him of the deed, and let the law 
Avenge thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh, ice-hearted counsellor ! 
If I could find a word that might make known 
The crime of my destroyer ; and that done. 
My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret 
Which cankers m)' heart's core ; ay, lay all bare, 
So that my unpolluted fame should be 
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story ; 
A mock, a by-word, an astonishment : — ■ 
If this were done, which never shall be done. 
Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate, 
And the strange horror of the accuser's tale, 
BafRing belief, and overpowering speech ; 
Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt 
In hideous hints — Oh, most assured redress ! 

ORsiiro. 
You will endure it then ? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure ! — Orsino, 
It seems your counsel is small profit. 

{Turns from him, and speaks haJf to herself. 

Ay, 

All must be suddenly resolved and done. 
What is this undistinguishable mist 
Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow. 
Darkening each other 1 

ORSINO. 

Should the offender live ] 
Triumph in his misdeed ] and make, by use 
His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt, 
Thine element ; until thou mayest become 
Utterly lost ; subdued even to the hue 
Of that which thou permittest ] 

BEATRICE (to kerself.) 

Mighty death ! 
Thou double-visaged shadow ! Only judge ! 
Rightfullest arbiter ! 

[SAe retires, absorbed tR thoun^ht. 

lUCRETIA. 

If the lightning 
Of God has e'er descended to avenge— 

ORSIJTO, 

Blaspheme not ! His high Pro^^dence commits 
Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs 



Into the hands of men ; if they neglect 
To punish crime — 

lUCRETIA. 

But if one, lilce this wretch. 
Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power 1 
If there be no appeal to that which makes 
The guiltiest tremble ! If, because our wrongs, 
For that they are unnatural, strange, and mon- 
strous, 
Exceed all measure of behef] Oh, God! 
If, for the very reasons which should make 
Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? 
And we, the victims, bear worse punishment 
Than that appointed for their torturer 1 

ORSI>"0. 

Think not 
But that there is redress where there is wrong, 
So we be bold enough to seize it. 

LUCRETIA. 

How! 
If there were any way to make all sure, 
I know not — but I think it might be good 
To— 



Why, his late outrage to Beatrice ; 
For it is such, as I but faintly guess. 
As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her 
Only one duty, how she may avenge : 
You, but one refuge from ills ill endui'ed ; 
Me, but one counsel — 

LUCRETIA. 

For we cannot hope 
That aid, or retribution, or resource 
Will arise thence, where every other one 
Might find them with less need. 

(Beatrice advances.") 

ORSiiro. 

Then— 

BEATRICE. 

Peace, Orsino ! 
And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray 
That you put off, as garments overworn. 
Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, 
And all the fit restraints of daily life, 
WMch have been borne from childhood, but which 
Would be a mockery to my holier plea. Tnow 
As I have said, I have endured a wrong, 
Which, though it be expressionless, is such 
As asks atonement, both for what is past. 
And lest I be reserved, day after day, 
To load with crimes an overburdened soul. 
And be — what ye can dream not. I have prayed 
To God, and I have talked with my owti heart, 
And have unravelled my entangled will. 
And have at length, determined what is right. 
Art thou my friend, Orsino 1 False or true ■? 
Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. 

ORSINO. 

I swear 
To dedicate my cunning, and my strength. 



164 



THE CENCI. 



My silence, and whatever else is mine, 
To thy commands. 

lUCIlETIA. 

You think we should devise 
His death ? 

BEATRICE. 

And execute what is devised. 
And suddenly. We must be brief and bold. 

onsTXO. 

And yet most cautious. 

lUCRETIA. 

For the jealous laws 
Would punish us with death and infamy 
For that which it became themselves to do. 

BEATRICE. 

Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino, 
What are the means 1 

ORSINO. 

I know two dull, fierce outlaws, 
Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they 
Would trample out, for any slight caprice. 
The meanest or the noblest life. This mood 
Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
What we now want. 

LUCRETIA. 

To-morrow, before dawn, 
Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, 
PetreOa, in the Apuhan Apennines. 
If he arrive there — 

BEATRICE. 

He must not arrive. 

ORSINO. 

Will it be dark before you reach the tower 1 

LUCRETIA. 

The sun will scarce be set. 

BEATRICE. 

But I remember 
Two miles on this side of the fort, the road 
Crosses a deep ravine ; 'tis rough and narrow. 
And winds with short turns down the precipice ; 
And in its depth there is a mighty rock. 
Which has, fi-om unimaginable years. 
Sustained itself with terror and with toil 
Over a gulf, and with the agony 
With which it clings seems slowly coming down ; 
Even as a WTetched soul hour after hour 
Clings to the mass of life ; yet, clinging, leans ; 
And, leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss 
In which it fears to fall : beneath this crag 
^uge £is despair, as if in weariness. 
The melancholy mountain yawns — ^below, 
You hear but see not an impetuous torrent 
Raging among the caverns, and a bridge 
Crosses the chasm ; and high above there grow, 
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag. 
Cedars, and yews, and pines ; whose tangled hair 
Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. 



Before you reach that bridge make some excuse 
For spurring on your mules, or loitering 
UntU— 

BEATRICE. 

What sound is that 1 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark ! No, it cannot be a servant's step ; 

It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 

Returned — Make some excuse for being here. 

BEATRICE (to OHSITfO OS sht gOCS OUt^ 

That step we hear approach must never pass 
The bridge of which we spoke. 

\_Exeunt Lucketia and Beatrice. 

OBSINO. 

What shall I do? 
Cenci must find me here, and I must bear 
The imperious inquisition of his looks 
As to what brought me hither : let me mask 
Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. 

Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner. 
How ! Have you ventured thither ! know you then 
That Cenci is from home 1 

GIACOMO. 

I sought him here ; 
And now must wait till he returns. 

ORSIKO. 

Great God ! 
Weigh you the danger of this rashness 1 

GIACOMO. 

Ay! 
Does my destroyer know his danger 1 We 
Are now no more, as once, parent and child, 
But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed; 
The slanderer to the slandered ; foe to foe. 
He has cast Nature off, which was his shield, 
And Nature casts him of!', who is her shame ; 
And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat 
Which I will shake? and say, I ask not gold; 
I ask not happy years ; nor memories 
Of tranquil childhood ; nor home-sheltered love ; 
Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more ; 
But only my fair fame ; only one hoard 
Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate. 
Under the penury heaped on me by thee ; 
Or I will — God can understand and pardon, 
Why should I speak with man 1 

OHSINO. 

Be calm, dear friend. 



Well, I will calml}' tell you what he did. 
This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, 
BoiTowed the dowiy of my wife from me. 
And then denied the loan ; and left me so 
In poverty, the which I sought to mend 
By holding a poor office in the state. 
It had been promised to me, and already 
I bought new clothing for my ragged babes. 
And my wife smiled ; and my heart knew repose ; 
When Cenci's intercession, as I found, 



THE CENCI. 



165 



Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thus 

He paid for vilest service. I returned 

With this ill news, and we sate sad together 

Solacing our despondency with tears 

Of such affection and unbroken faith 

As temper life's worst bitterness : when he, 

As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, 

Mocking our poverty, and telling us 

Such was God's scourge for disobedient sons. 

And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame, 

I spoke of my wife's dowry ; but he coined 

A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted 

The sum in secret riot ; and he saw 

My wife was touched, and he went smiUng forth. 

And when I knew the impression he had made, 

And felt my wife insult with silent scorn 

My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, 

I went forth too ; but soon returned again ; 

Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught 

My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried, 

" Give us clothes, father ! Give us better food ! 

What you in one night squander were enough 

For months !" I looked and saw that home was hell. 

And to that hell will I return no more, 

Until mine enemy has rendered up 

Atonement, or, as he gave life to me, 

I will, reversmg nature's law — ■ 

ORSINO. 

Trust me, 
The compensation which thou seekest here 
Will be denied. 

GIACOirO. 

Then — Are you not my friend 1 
Did you not hint at the alternative. 
Upon the brink of which you see I stand. 
The other day when we conversed together 1 
My wrongs were then less. That word parricide. 
Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear. 

ORSIKO. 

It must be fear itself, for the bare word 

Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God" 

Draws to one point the threads of a just doom. 

So sanctifying it : what you devise 

Is, as it were, accomplished. 

GXACOJIO. 

Is he dead ! 
oHsi:\o. 
His grave is ready. Know that since we met 
Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. 



What outrage 1 

OHSIXO. 

That she speaks not, but you may 
Conceive such half conjectures as I do. 
From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief 
Of her stem brow, bent on the idle air, 
And her severe unmodulated voice, 
Drowning both tenderness and dread ; and last 
From this ; that whilst her step-mother and I 
Bewildered in om- horror, talk together 
With obscure hmts ; both sclf-inisunderstood, 
And daj-kly guessing, stumblmg, in our talk, 



Over the triith, and yet to its revenge. 

She interrupted us, and with a look 

Which told, before she spoke it, he must die — ■ 

GIACOMO. 

It is enough. My doubts are well appeased ; 

There is a higher reason for the act 

Than mine ; there is a holier judge than me, 

A more imblamed avenger. Beatrice, 

Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth 

Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised 

A living flower, but thou hast pitied it 

With needless tears ! Fair sister, thou in whom 

Men wondered how such lovehness and wisdom 

Did not destroy each other ! Is there made 

Ravage of thee ? O, heai't, I ask no more 

Justification ! Shall I wait, Orsino, 

Till he return, and stab him at the door ? 

ORSIJfO. 

Not so ; some accident might interpose 
To rescue him from what is now most sure ; 
And you are vmpro\'ided where to fly. 
How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen : 
All is contrived ; success is so assured 
That— 

Enter BEATRICE. 
BEATRICE. 

'Tis my brother's voic^ ! You know me not 1 

GIACOMO. 

My sister, my lost sister ! 

BEATRICE. 

Lost indeed ! 
I see Orsino has talked with you, and 
That you conjecture things too horrible 
To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not. 
He might return : yet kiss me ; I shall know 
That then thou hast consented to his death. 
Farewell, farewell ! Let piety to God, 
Brotherly love, justice, and clemency, 
Ajid all things that make tender hardest hearts. 
Make thuie hard, brother. Answer not — farewell. 
lEzeunt severally. 



SCENE n. 

A mean Apartment in Giacomo's House. 

GlACOMO alone. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. 

[Thunder, and the sound ofastorm. 
What ! can the everlasting elements 
Feel with a worm like man ? If so, the shaft 
Of mercy-winged Hghtning would not fall 
On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep : 
They are now living in unmeaning dreams : 
But I must wake, still doubting if that deed 
Be just which was most necessary. O, 
Thou unreplenishcd lamp ! whose narrow fire 
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
Devouring darkness hovers ! Thou small flame. 



166 



THE CENCr. 



Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, 
Still flickerest up and down, how very soon 
Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be 
As thou hadst never been ! So wastes and sinks 
Even now, perhaps, the life that Idndled mine : 
But that no power can fill with vital oil 
That broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 'tis the blood 
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold ; 
It is the form that moulded mine, that sinks 
Into the white and yellow spasms of death : 
It is the soul by which mine was arrayed 
In God's immortal likeness which now stands 
Naked before Heaven's judgment-seat ! 

[A bell strikes . 

One! Two! 
The hours crawl on ; and when my hairs are white 
My son will then perhaps be waiting thus, 
Tortured between just hate and vain remorse ; 
Chiding the tardy messenger of news 
Like those which I expect. I almost wish 
He be not dead, although my wrongs are great ; 
Yet — 'tis Orsino's step. 

Enter Obsino. 

Speak ! 

ORSIITO. 

I am come 
To say he has escaped. 

giaCoto. 
Escaped ! 

ORSINO 

And safe 
Within Petrella. He passed by the spot 
Appomted for the deed an hour too soon. 

GIACOMO. 

Are we the fools of such contingencies ? 

And do we waste in blind misgivings thus 

The hours when we should act ] Tlien wind and 

thunder, 
Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter 
With which Heaven mocks our weakness ! I 

henceforth 
Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done. 
But my repentance. 

ORSINO. 

See, the lamp is out. 

GIACOMO. 

If no remorse is ours when the dim air 
Has drunk this innocent flame, why should we quail 
When Cenci's life, that hght by which ill spirits 
See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever 1 
No, I am hardened. 

OHSIN-Q. 

Why, what need of this ? 
Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse 
In a just deed 1 Although our first plan failed, 
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. 
But light the lamp ; let us not talk i' the dark, 

GIACOMO (lighting the lamp^ 
And yet, once quenched, I cannot thus relume 
My father's life : do you not think his ghost 
Might plead that argument with God ? 



ORSIJfO. 

Once gone, 
You cannot now recall your sister's peace ; 
Your own extinguished years of 3'outh and hope; 
Nor your wife's bitter words ; nor all the taunts 
Which fiom the prosperous, weak misfortune takes ; 
Nor your dead mother ; nor — 

GIACOMO. 

0, speak no more ! 
I am resolved, although this very hand 
Must quench the life that animated it. 

ORSINO. 

There is no need of that. Listen : you know 

Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 

In old Colonna's time ; him whom your father 

Degraded from his post 1 And Marzio, 

That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year 

Of a reward of blood, well earned and due ] 

GIACOMO. 

I knew Olimpio ; and they say he hated 
Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
His lips grew white only to see him pass. 
Of Marzio I know nothing. 

ORSINO. 

Marzio's hat© 
Matches Olimpio' s. I have sent these men, 
But in your name, and as at your request, 
To talk with Beatiice and Lucretia. 

GIACOMO. 

Only to talk ! 

ORSINO. 

The moments which even now 
Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour. 
May memorize their flight with death : ere then 
They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, 
And made an end. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen ! What sound is that? 

ORSINO. 

The house-dog rnoans, and the beams creak: 
nought else. 

GIACOMO. 

It is my wife complaining in her sleep : 

I doubt not she is saying bitter things 

Of me ; and all my children round her dreaming 

That I deny them sustenance. 

ORSINO. 

WTiilst he 
Who truly took it from them, and who fills 
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps 
Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly 
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
Too like the truth of day. 

GIACOMO. 

If e'er he wakes 
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands — 

ORSINO. 

Why, that were well. I must be gone ; good night ! 
When next we meet may all be done ! 

GIACOMO. 

And all 

Forgotten : Oh, that I had never been ! [Exeunt. 



THE CENCI. 



167 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. 
Enter Cenci. 

CENCI. 

She comes not ; yet I left her even now 
Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty 
Of her delay ; yet what if threats are vain ? 
Am I not now vwthin Petrella's moat 1 
Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome 1 
Might I not drag her by the golden hair 1 
Stamp on her 1 Keep her sleepless, till her brain 
Be overworn'? Tame her with chains and famine? 
Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone 
What I most seek ! No, 'tis her stubborn will. 
Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as low 
As that which drags it down. 

Enter Lucretia. 

Thou loathed wretch ! 
Hide thee from my abhorrence ; fly, begone ! 
Yet stay ! Bid Beati-ice come hither. 



lUCRETIA. 



Oh, 



Husband ! I pray, for thine own wretched sake. 
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee 
Through crimes, and through the danger of his 

crimes. 
Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. 
And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gi'ay ; 
As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell. 
Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend 
In marriage ; so that she may tempt thee not 
To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be. 

CENCr. 

What! like her sister, who has found a home 
To mock my hate from with prosperity ? 
Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee. 
And all that yet remain. My death may be 
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
Bid her come hither, and before my mood 
Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. 

LUCBETIA. 

She sent rae to thee, husband. At thy presence 
She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance ; 
And in that trance she heard a voice which said, 
" Cenci must die ! let him confess himself ! 
Even now the accusing angel waits to hear 
If God, to punish his enormous crimes. 
Harden his dying heart !" 



Why — such things are 
No doubt divine revealings may be made. 
'Tis plain I have been favoured from above. 
For when I cursed my sons, they died — Ay — s 
As to the right or wrong, that's talk — repentance- 
Repentance is an easy moment's work, 
And more depends on God than me. Well — well 



I must give up the greater point, which was 
To poison and coiTupt her soul. 

[j3 pause; Lucretia approaches anxiously i 
and then shrinks back as he speaks. 
One, two; 
Ay — Rocco and Cristofano my curse 
Strangled : and Giacomo, I think, will find 
Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave : 
Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate. 
Die in despair, blaspheming : to Bernardo, 
He is so innocent, I will bequeath 
The memory of these deeds, and make his youth 
The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts 
Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. 
When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, 
I vnll pile up my silver and my gold ; 
My costly robes, paintings, and tapestries ; 
My parchments, and all records of my wealth ; 
And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave 
Of my possessions nothing but my name ; 
Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
Its wearer bare as infiimy. That done, 
My soul, which is a scourge, wdll I resign 
Into the hands of him who wielded it ; 
Be it for its own punishment or theirs, 
He will not ask it of me till the lash 
Be broken in its last and deepest wound ; 
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let it make 
Short work and sure. IGoing. 

LtJCRETIA (stops Mm.') 

Oh, stay ! It was a feint : 
She had no vision, and she heard no voice. 
I said it but to awe thee. 

CENCI. 

That is well. 
Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, 
Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie ! 
For Beatrice, worse terrors are in store, 
To bend her to my will. 

tUCHETIA. 

Oh, to what will ? 
What cruel sufferings, more than she has known, 
Canst thou inflict 1 



Andrea ! go, call roy daughter, 
And if she comes not, tell her that I come. 
What sufferings 1 I will drag her, step by step. 
Through infamies unheard of among men ; 
She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon 
Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad. 
One among which shall be — What 1 Canst thou 

guess 1 
She shall become (for what she most abhors 
Shall have a fascination to entrap 
Her loathing will,) to her own conscious self 
All she appears to others; and when dead. 
As she shall die unshrivcd and unforgiven, 
A rebel to her father and her God, 



168 



THE CENCI. 



Hor corpse sliall be abandoned to tlie hounds ; 
Her name shall be the terror of the earth ; 
Her spirit shall ajiproach the throne of God 
IMaufue-spotted with my rurses. I will niako 
Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 

Enter Anduea. 



Tho lady Bcatricc- 



Saidshc? 



CENCr. 

Speali, pale slave ! What 



My Lord, 'twas what she Jooked ; she said : 
« Go tell my father that I see the gulf 
Of Hell between us two, which he may pass ; 
I will not." [Kiit Andrea. 

CEXCI. 

Go thou quick, Lucrctia, 
Tell her to come ; yet let her understand 
Her comint; is consent ; and say, moreover, 
That if she comes not I will curse her. 

[Exit LUCRETIA. 

Ha! 

With w-hat but with a father's cui-sc doth God 
Panic-strike armed \ ictory, and make pale 
Cities in their prosperity ! The world's Father 
Must grant a parent's ])rayer against his child, 
Be ho who asks even what men call me. 
\\'ill not the deaths of her rebellious brothers 
Awe her before I speak ? For I on them 
Dill imprecate ^uick ruin, and it caiuc. 

Enter LucRETlA. 
Well ; what ? Speali, WTetch ! 

tUCRETIA. 

Slie said. " I cannot come ; 
Go tell my father that I sec a torrent 
Of his own blood raging between us." 



CENCI (kneeling.) 



God! 



Hear me ! If this most specious mass of flesh, 
^\'hieh thou hast made my daughter; this my blood. 
This particle of my divided being ; 
Or rather this my bane and my disease, 
Whose sight infects and poisons me ; this devil. 
Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant 
To aught good use ; if her bright loveliness 
Was kindled to illumine this dark world ; 
If nursed by thy selectest dew of love. 
Such \irtues blossom in her as should make 
The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake. 
As thou the common (Jod and Father art 
Of her, and me. and all ; reverse that doom ! 
Earth, in the name of (lod, let her food bo 
Poison, until she bo incrusted round 
^^'ith leprous stains ! Heaven, rain uiwn her head 
The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew, 
Till she be speckled like a toad ; parch up 
Those love-cnkiudled lijis, warp those tine limbs 
To loathed lameness ! All-beholding sun, 



Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes 
With thine own bhnding beams ! 

XUCUETIA. 

Peace ! peace ! 
For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. 
When high God grants, he punishes such prayers. 

CENCI (^Leaping up, and Ihrowing his right hand 

towards Heaiwn.) 
He docs his will, I mine ! This in addition, 
That if she have a child 

lUCIlETIA. 

Horrible thought ! 

CETfCT. 

That if ever she have a child ; and tlvou. 

Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, 

That thou lie fruitful in her, and increase 

And multiply, fullilling his command. 

And my det-p imprecation! May it be 

A hideous likeness of herself; that as 

From a distorting mirror, she may see 

Iler image mixed with what she most abhors, 

Smiling upon her from her nursing breast. 

And that tho child may from its infancy 

(Jrow, day by day, more wicked and deformed. 

Turning her mother's love to misery : 

And that both she and it may live, until 

It shall rejiay her care and pain with hate. 

Or what may else be more unnatural. 

So he may hunt her tluough the clamorous scofTs 

Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave. 

Shall I revoke this curse ] Go, bid her come, 

Before my words are chronicled in heaven. 

[Exit Ldcretia.. 
I do not feel as if I were a man, 
But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
The olVences of some un remembered world. 
My blood is running up and down my veins ! 
A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle : 
I feel a giddy sickness of strange avv-e ; 
My heart is beating with an expectation 
Of horrid joy. 

Enter Lccretia. 

What? Speak! 

ITJCHETIA. 

She liids tlicc curse ; 
And if thy curses, as they cannot do, 
Could kill her soul — 

CEXCI. 

She w'ould not come. 'Tis well, 
I can do botli : iirst take what I demand, 
And then extort concession. To thy chamber ! 
Fly ere I spurn thee : and beware this night 
That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer 
To come between the tiger and his prey. 

[Exit LVCRETIA. 

It must be late ; mine eyes grow weary dim 
With imaccustomed heaviness to sleep. 
Conscience ! Oh, thou most insolent of lies ! 
They say that sleep, that healing dew of heaven, 
Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain 
Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go, 
First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 
^Mlich will be deep and calm, I feel ; and then — 



THE 


DENCL 169 




0, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake 


OLIMPIO. 




Thine arches with the laughter of their joy ! 


Or 'tis my hate, and the deferred desire 




There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven 


To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. 




As o'er an angel lallen ; and upon Earth 

All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things 

Shall, with a spirit of unnatural life, 


IIARZIO. 

You are inclined then to this business 1 




Stir and be quickened — even as I am now. 


OLIMPIO. 




lEiit. 


Ay, 

If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns 
To kill a serpent which had stung my child, 








SCENE n. 


I could not be more willing. 




Before the Caslle of FetrelUi 


Enter Beatrice and Lucketia below. 




Enter Beatrice and Lucbetia above on the ramparts. 


Noble ladies 




BEATRICE. 






They come not yet. 


BEATRICE. 

Are ye resolved 1 




tUCRETIA. 


OLIMPIO. 




'Tis scarce midnight. 


Is he asleep 1 




BEATIIICE. 


MARZIO. 




How slow 


Is all 




Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, 


Quiet? 




Lags leaden-footed time ! 


LUCRETIA. 




LUCRETIA. 


I mixed an opiate with his drink: 




The minutes pass — 


He sleeps so soundly — 




If he should wake before the deed is done 1 


BEATRICE. 




BEATRICE. 


That his death will be 




0, Mother ! He must never wake again. 


But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, 




What thou hast said persuades me that our act 


A daik continuance of the Hell within him, 




Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 


Which God extinguish ! But ye are resolved 1 




Out of a human form. 


Ye know it is a high and holy deed 1 




LUCRETIA. 


OLIMPIO. 




'Tis true he spoke 


We are resolved. 




' Of death and judgment with strange confidence 


MARZIO. 




For one so wacked ; as a man believing 


As to the how this act 




In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 


Be warranted, it rests with you. 




And yet to die without confession ! — 






BEATRICE. 




BEATRICE. 


Well, follow ! 




Oh! 






Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, 


OLIMPIO. 




And will not add our dread necessity 


Hush ! Hark ! What noise is that 1 




To the amount of his offences. 


MARZIO. 




Enter Olimpio and Marzio, below. 


Ha ! some one comes ! 




LUCRETIA. 

See, 
They come. 


BEATRICE. 




Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest 




Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, 




BEATRICE. 


Which ye left open, swinging to the wind. 




All mortal things must hasten thus 


That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! 




To their dark end. Let us go down. 


And be your steps like mine, light, quick, and bold. 




[EieiLnt LucRETiA and Beatrice from above. 


[Exeunt. 




oi.iyivxo. 






How feel you to tliis work ] 

MARZIO. 










As one who thinks 


SCENE m. . 




A thousand crowns excellent market price 


An Apartment in the Castle. 




For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks arc pale. 


Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. 




OLIJIPIO. 






It is the white reflection of your own, 


LUCRETIA. 




Which you call pale. 


They are about it now. 




MARZIO. 


BEATRICE. 




Is that their natural hue ? 


Nav, it is done. 




22 


P 





170 



THE CENCI. 



lUCRETIA. 

I have not heard him groan. 

BEATRICE. 

He will not groan. 

LIJCRETIA. 

What sound is that 1 

BEATRICE. 

List ! 'tis the tread of feet 
About his bed. 

XUCRETIA. 

My God ! 
If he be now a cold stifl' corpse — ■ 

BEATRICE. 

0, fear not 
"What may be done, but what is left undone : 
The act seals all. 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 
Is it accomplished ] 

MARZIO. 

What] 

OLIMPIO. 

Did you not call ■? 

BEATRICE. 

When 1 



OLIMPIO. 



Now. 



BEATRICE. 

I ask if all is over ? 

OLIMPIO. 

We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; 
His thin gray hair, his stern and reverent brow. 
His veined hands crossed on his heaving breast, 
And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay. 
Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. 

MARZIO. 

But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, 
And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave, 
And leave riie the reward. And now my knife 
Touched the loose vrrinkled throat, when the old man 
Stirred in his sleep, and said, " God ! hear, O hear, 
A father's curse ! What, art thou not our father!" 
And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost 
Of my dead father speaking through Ids lips, 
And could not kill him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable slaves ! 
Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
Found ye the boldness to return to me 
With such a deed undone 1 Base palterers ! 
Cowards and traitors ! Why, the very conscience 
Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge 
Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 
A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 
And when a deed, where mercy insults Heaven — 
Why do I talk"? 

ISnatchinor a dagger from one of them, and raising it. 
Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
She murdered her own father, I must do it ! 
But never dream yc shall outlive him long ! 



OLIMPIO. 

Stop, for God's sake ! 

MARZIO. 

I will go back and kill him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take it ! Depart ! Return ! 

[Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. 
How pale thou art ! 
We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime 
To leave undone. 

rtJCRETIA. 

Would it were done ! 

BEATRICE. 

Even whilst 
That doubt is passing through your mind, the world 
Is conscious of a change. Darkness and hell 
Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth 
To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath 
Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood 
Runs freely through my veins. Hark ! 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 

He is-^ 

OLIMPIO. 

Dead! 

MARZIO. 

We strangled him, that there might be no blood ; 
And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden 
Under the balcony ; 'twill seem it fell. . 

BEATRICE {giving them a bag of coin.') 

Here take this gold, and hasten to your homes. 
And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed 
By that which made me tremble, wear thou this ! 
[Clothes him in a rich mantle. 
It was the mantle which my grandfather 
Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
Envied his state : so may they envy thine. 
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
To a just use. Live long and thrive ! And, mark. 
If thou hast crimes, repent : this deed is none. 

[A horn is sounded. 
LtFCBETIA. 

Hark, 'tis the castle horn : my God ! it soimds 
Like the last trump. 

BEATRICE. 

Some tedious guest is coming. 

LUCRETIA. 

The drawbridge is let down ;. there is a tramp 
Of horses in the court ! fly, hide yourselves ! 

[Eieunt Olimpio and Marzio. 

BEATRICE. 

Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; 

I scarcely need to counterfeit it now ; 

The spirit which doth reign witliin these limbs 

Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep 

Fearless and calm : all ill is surely past. 

[Exeunt. 



THE CENCI. 



171 



SCENE IV. 

Another Apartment in the Castle. 

Enter on one side the Legate Savella, introduced by a 
Servant, and on the other Lucbetia and Bernardo. 

SATELLA. 

Lady, my duty to his Holiness 

Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 

I break upon your rest. I must speak with 

Count Cenci: doth he sleep] 

tucRETiA (J7i a hurried and confused manner.) 
I think he sleeps ; 
Yet, wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, 
He is a wicked and wrathful man; 
Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, 
Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, 
It were not well ; indeed it were not well. 
Wait till daybreak, — 

(Aside.) 0, I am deadly sick ! 

SAVELLA. 

I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count 
Must answer charges of the gravest import, 
And suddenly ; such my commission is. 

LucRETiA (with increased agitation.) 
I dare not rouse him, I know none who dare ; 
'Twere perilous ; — you might as safely waken 
A serpent ; or a corpse in which some fiend 
Were laid to sleep. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady, my moments here 
Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep. 
Since none else dare. 

LUCRETIA (aside.) 

O, terror ! O, despair ! 
(To Behxardo.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord 

Legate to 
Your father's chamber. 

lExeunt Savella and Bernardo. 
Enter Beatrice. 

'Tis a messenger 
Come to arrest the culprit who now stands 
Before the throne of unappealable God. 
Both Earth and Heaven consenting arbiters, 
Acquit our deed. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh, agony of fear ! 
Would that he yet might live ! Even now I heard 
The legate's followers whisper as they passed 
They had a warrant for his instant death. 
All was prepared by unforbidden means. 
Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 
Even now they search the tower, and find the body ; 
Now they suspect the truth ; now they consult, 
Before they come to tax us with the fact ; 
horrible, 'tis all discovered ! 

BEATRICE. 

Mother, 
What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold 
As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child, 
To fear that others know what thou hast done. 
Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus 



Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks 

All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, 

And fear no other witness but thy fear. 

For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 

Should rise in accusation, we can blind 

Suspicion with such cheap astonishment. 

Or overbear it with such guiltless pride. 

As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, 

And what may follow now regards not me. 

I am as vmiversal as the light ; 

Free as the earth-surrounding air ; as firm 

As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, 

Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock. 

But shakes it not. 

[A cry within and tumult. 
VOICES. 
Murder! Murder! Murder! 

Enter Bernardo and Savella. 

SAVELLA (to his followers.) 
Go, search the castle round ; sound the alarm ! 
Look to the gates, that none escape ! 

BEATRICE. 

What now ? 

BERNARDO. 

I know not what to say — my father's dead. 

BEATRICE. 

How, dead 1 he only sleeps ; you mistake, brother. 
His sleep is very calm, very like death ; 
'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. 
He is not dead ? 

BERITARDO. 

Dead ; murdered ! 
LUCRETIA (with extreme agitation.) 

Oh, no, no, 
He is not murdered, though he may be dead ; 
I have alone the keys of those apartments. 

SAVELLA. 

Ha ! Is it so 1 

BEATRICE. 

My lord, I pray excuse us ; 
We will retire ; my mother is not well ; 
She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. 
[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. 

SAVELLA. 

Can you suspect who may have murdered himl 

BERXARDO. 

I know not what to think. 



Can you name any 
"Who had an interest in his death 1 

BERNARDO. 

Alas! 
I can name none who had not, and those most 
Who most lament that such a deed is done ; 
My mother, and my sister, and myself. 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis strange ! There were clear marks of violence. 
I found the old man's body in the moonlight. 
Hanging beneath the window of his chamber 



173 



THE CENCI. 



Among the branches of a pine : he could not 
Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped 
And effortless ; 'tis true there was no blood. — 
Favour me, sir — it much imports 3' our house 
That all should be made clear — to tell the ladies 
That I request their presence. 

[Exit Bernardo. 
Enter Ouards, hring-ing in Marzio. 

GUAKD. 

We have one. 

OFFICEH. 

My lord, we found this ruffian and another 
Lurking among the rocks ; there is no doubt 
But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci : 
Each had a bag of coin ; this fellow wore 
A gold-inwoven robe, which, shining bright 
Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon, 
Betrayed them to our notice : the other fell 
Desperately fighting. 

SAVELtA. 

What does he confess ? 

OFFICER. 

He keeps firm silence ; but these lines found on him 
May speak. 

SAVELLA. 

Their language is at least sincere. 

[Reads. 

To TUE Laby Beatrice. 

"That the atonement of what my nature sickens 

to conjecture may soon arrive, I send thee, at thy 

brother's desii-e, those who will speak and do more 

than I dare write. 

" Thy devoted servant, 

"Orsixo." 

Enter Lucretia, Beatr"ice and Bernardo. 
Knowest thou this writing, lady 1 



BEATRICE. 



No. 



SAVELLA. 

Nor thou 1 

ttrcRETiA (her conduct throughout the scene is 
marked by extreme agitation.) 

Where was it found 1 What is it ? It should be 
Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange horror 
Which never yet found utterance, but which made 
Between that hapless child and her dead father 
A gulf of obscure hatred. 

SATELLA. 

Is it so 1 
Is it true, lady, that thy father did 
Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
Unfihal hate 1 

BEATRICE. 

Not hate, 'twas more than hate ; 
This is most true, yet wherefore question me 1 

SAVELLA. 

There is a deed demanding question done ; 
Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 



BEATRICE. 

What sayest 1 My lord, your words are bold and 
rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I do arrest all present in the name 

Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome. 

LUCRETIA. 

O, not to Rome ! Indeed we are not guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty ! Who dares talk of guilt ? My lord, 

I am more innocent of parricide. 

Than is a child born fatherless. Dear mother, 

Your gentleness and patience are no shield 

For this keen-judging world, this two-edged He, 

Which seems, but is not. What ! will human laws 

Rather will ye who are their ministers, 

Bar all access to retribution first. 

And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do 

What ye neglect, arming familiar things 

To the redress of an unwonted crime. 

Make ye the victims who demanded it 

Culprits ? 'Tis ye are culprits ! That poor wretch 

Wlio stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, 

If it he ti-ue he murdered Cenci, was 

A sword in the right hand of justest God. 

Wherefore should I have wielded it ? unless 

The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name, 

God therefore scruples to avenge. 



You own 



That you desired his death 1 



BEATRICE. 

It would have been 
A crime no less than his, if for one moment 
That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
'Tis true I did l)elieve, and hope, and pray. 
Ay, I even knew — for God is wise and just. 
That some strange sudden death hung over him. 
'Tis tme that this did happen, and most true 
There was no other rest for me on earth. 
No other hope in Heaven ; — now what of this 1 

SAVELLA. 

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds ; and here 

are both : 
I judge thee not. 

BEATRICE. 

And yet, if you arrest me, 
You are the judge and executioner 
Of that which is the life of hfe : the breath 
Of accusation kills an innocent name. 
And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, 
Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false 
That I am guilty of foul pamcide ; 
Although I must rejoice, for justest cause. 
That other hands have sent my father's soul 
To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
Now leave us fi'ce : stain not a noble house 
With vague surmises of rejected crime ; 
Add to our sufferings and your own neglect 
No heavier sum ; let them have been enough : 
Leave us the wreck we have. 



THE CENCI. 



173 



I dare not, lady. 
I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome : 
There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. 

LUCRETIA. 

0, not to Rome ! O, take us not to Rome ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why not to Rome, dear mother ! There, as here, 
Our innocence is as an armed heel 
To trample accusation. God is there. 
As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 
The innocent, the injured, and the weak. 
And such are we. Cheer up, dear lady ! lean 
On me ; collect your wandering thoughts. My lord, 
As soon as you have taken some refreshment. 
And had all such examinations made 
Upon the spot, as may be necessary 
To the full understanding of this matter, 
We shall be ready. Mother, will you come ] 

LUCRETIA. 

Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest 
Self-accusation from our agony ! 



Will Giacomo be there 1 Orsino 1 Marzio 1 
All present 1 all confronted ; all demanding 
Each from the other's countenance the thing 
Wlaich is in every heart ! O, misery ! 

l^She faints, and is borne out. 
SAVEILA. 

She faints ; an ill appearance this. 

BEATRICE. 

My lord. 
She knows not yet the uses of the world. 
She fears that power is as a beast which grasps 
And loosens not : a snake whose look transmutes 
All things to guilt, which is its nutriment. 
She cannot know how well the siipine slaves 
Of blind authority read the truth of things 
When written on a brow of guilelessness : 
She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 
Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal man, 
A judge and an accuser of the wrong 
Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my lord ; 
Our suite will join yours in the court below. 

lExeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE r. 

Jin Apartment in Orsino's Palace. 
Enter Orsino and Giacomo. 



Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end ? 

O that the vain remorse which must chastise 

Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn, 

As its keen sting is mortal to avenge ! 

O that the hour when present had cast off 

The mantle of its mystery, and shown 

The ghastly form with which it now returns 

When its sacred game is roused, cheering the 

hounds 
Of conscience to their prey ! Alas, alas ! 
It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, 
To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 

ORSINO. 

It has turned out unluckily, in truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To violate the sacred doors of sleep ; 
To cheat kind nature of the placid death 
Which she prepares for overwearied age ; 
To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul. 
Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers 
A Ufe of burning crimes — 



I urged you to the deed. 



You cannot say 



GIACOMO. 

O, had I never 
Found in thy smooth and ready countenance 
The mirror of my darkest thoughts ; hadst thou 



Never with hints and questions made me look 
Upon the monster of my thought, until 
It grew familiar to desire — • 

ORSINO. 

'Tis thus 
Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts 
Upon the abettors of their own resolve : 
Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. 
And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 
In which you stand that gives you this pale sick- 
ness 
Of penitence ; confess, 'tis fear disguised 
From its own shame that takes the mantle now 
Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe 1 

GIACOMO. 

How can that be 1 Already Beatrice, 
Lucretia, and the murderer, are in prison. 
I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, 
Sent to arrest us. 

ORSINO. 

I have all prepared 
For instant flight. We can escape even now. 
So we take fleet occasion by the hau". 

GIACOMO. 

Rather expire in tortures, as I may. 
What ] will you cast by self-accusing flight 
Assured conviction upon Beatrice ] 
She who alone, in this unnatural work. 
Stands like God's angel ministered upon 
By fiends ; avenging such a nameless wrong 
As turns black parricide to piety ; 
Whilst we for basest ends — I fear, Orsino, 
While I consider all your words and looks, 
p2 



r^ 



THE CENCI. 



Comparing them with your proposal now, 
That you must be a villain. For what end 
Could you engage in such a perilous crime, 
Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, 
Even to tliis gulf? Thou art no liar ] No, 
Thou art a lie ! Traitor and murderer ! 
Coward and slave ! But no — defend thyself; 

IDrawing. 
Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue 
Disdains to brand thee with. 

OBSINO. 

Put up your weapon. 
Is it the desperation of your fear 
Makes you thus rash and sudden with your fHend, 
Now ruined for your sake ] If honest anger 
Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed 
Was but to try you. As for me, I think 
Thankless affection led me to this point, 
From which, if my firm temper could repent, 
I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak, 
The ministers of justice wait below: 
They grant me these brief moments. Now, if you 
Have any word of melancholy comfort 
To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass 
Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 

GIACOMO. 

Oh, generous friend ! How canst thou pardon me ? 
Would that my life could purchase thine ! 

ORSINO. 

That wish 
Now comes a day too late. Haste ; fare thee well ! 
Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor 1 

[Exit GiAcoMo. 
I'm sorry for it ; but the guards are waiting 
At his owm gate, and such was my contrivance 
That I might rid me both of him and them. 
I thought to act a solemn comedy 
Upon the painted scene of this new world, 
And to attain my own peculiar ends 
By some such plot of mingled good and ill 
As others weave ; but there arose a Power 
Which grasped and snapped the threads of my 

device. 
And turned it to a net of ruin — Ha ! 

[j? shout is heard. 
Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad ? 
But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise ; 
Rags on my back, and a false innocence 
Upon my face, through the misdeeming crowd, 
Which judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then. 
For a new name, and for a country new. 
And a new life, fashioned on old desires, 
To change the honours of abandoned Rome. 
And these must be the masks of that within, 
Which must remain unaltered. — Oh, I fear 
That what is past will never let me rest ! 
Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, 
Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt 
Trouble me 1 Have I not the power to fly 
My own reproaches ? Shall I be the slave 
Of— what] A word! which those of this false 

world 
Employ against each other, not themselves; 
As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 



But if I am mistaken, where shall I 
Find the disguise to hide me from myself. 
As now I skulk from every other eye I 



[Etit. 



SCENE II. 

A Hall of Justice. 

Camillo, Judges, etc., are discovered seated ; 

Marzio is led in. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Accused, do you persist in your denial 1 

I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty ] 

I demand who were the participators 

In your offence ] Speak truth, and the whole truth. 

MARZIO. 

My God ! I did not kill him ; I know nothing ; 
Olimpio sold the robe to me from wliich 
You would infer my guilt. 

SECOND JUDGE. 

Away with him ! 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss, 
Speak false 1 Is it so soft a questioner. 
That you would bandy lover's talk vnth. it, 
TUl it wind out yom: hfe and soul 1 Away ! 

mahzio. 
Spare me ! 0, spare ! I will confess. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Then speak. 

MARZIO. 

I strangled him in his sleep. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Who urged you to it ? 

MARZIO. 

His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate 
Orsino sent me to Petrella; there 
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I 
And my companion forthwith murdered Mm. 
Now let me die. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, 
Lead forth the prisoners. 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded. 
Look upon this man ; 
When did you see him last 1 

BEATRICE. 

We never saw him. 

MARZIO. 

You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

I know thee ! How ! where 1 when 1 

MARZIO. 

You know 'twas I 
Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes 
To kill your father. When the thing was done. 



THE CENCI. 



175 



You clothed me in a robe of woven gold, 

And bade me thrive : hovsr I have thriven, you see. 

You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 

You know that what I speak is true. 

[Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his 
face, and shrinks back . 

Oh, dart 
The temble resentment of those eyes 
On the dread earth ! Turn them away from me ! 
They wound : 'twas torture forced the truth. My 

Lords, 
Having said this, let me be led to death. 

BEATRICE. 

Poor wretch, I pity thee : yet stay awhile. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards, lead him not away. 

BEATHICE. 

Cardinal Camillo, 
You have a good repute for gentleness 
And wisdom : can it be that you sit here 
To countenance a wicked farce like this ? 
When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged 
From sufferings which might shake the sternest 

heart. 
And bade to answer, not as he believes, 
But as those may suspect or do desire. 
Whose questions thence suggest their own reply : 
And that in peril of such hideous torments 
As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now 
The thing you surely know, which is, that you. 
If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel. 
And you were told, " Confess that you did poison 
Your little nephew : that fair blue-eyed child 
Who was the load-star of your life;" and though 
All see, since his most swift and piteous death. 
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, 
And all the things hoped for or done therein, 
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, 
Yet you would say, "I confess any thing" — 
And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, 
The refuge of dishonourable death. 
I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert 
My innocence. 

CAMILLO (rnuch moved.) 

What shall we think, my lords ? 
Shame on these tears ! I thought the heart was 

frozen 
Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul 
That she is guiltless. 

JUDGE. 

Yet she must be tortured. 

CAMILLO. 

I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew 
(If he now lived, he would be just her age ; 
His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes 
Like hers in shape, but blue, and not so deep :) 
As that most perfect image of God's love 
That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 
She is as pure as speechless infancy ! 

JUDGE. 

Well, be her purity on your head, my lord, 
If you forbid the rack. His HoUness 



Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime 
By the severest forms of law ; nay, even 
To stretch a point against the criminals. 
The prisoners stand accused of parricide, 
Upon such evidence as justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE. 

What evidence ] This man's 1 

JUDGE. 

Even so. 

BEATRICE (To MaRZIO.) 

Come near. And who art thou, thus chosen forth 
Out of the multitude of living men, 
To kill the innocent 1 



Thy father's vassal. 



MARZIO. 

I am Marzio, 

BEATRICE. 

Fix thine eyes on mine ; 



Answer to what I ask. 

[Turning- to the Judges. 
I prithee mark 
His countenance: unlike bold calumny, 
Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, 
He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends 
His gaze on the blind earth. 

(To Marzio.) What! wilt thou say 
That I did mmder my own father "? 



Oh! 
Spare me ! My brain swims round — I cannot 



It was that horrid torture forced the truth. 
Take me away ! Let her not look on me ! 
I am a guilty miserable wretch ! 
I have said all I know ; now, let me die ! 



BEATRICE. 



My lords, if by my nature I had been 

So stem, as to have planned the crime alleged, 

Which your suspicions dictate to this slave. 

And the rack makes him utter, do you think 

I should have left this two-edged instrument 

Of my misdeed ; this man ; this bloody knife, 

With my own name engraved on the heft. 

Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, 

For my own death ? That with such horrible need 

For deepest silence, I should have neglected 

So tiivial a precaution, as the making 

His tomb the keeper of a secret wiitten 

On a thief's memory 1 What is his poor life 1 

What are a thousand lives 7 A parricide 

Had trampled them like dust ; and see, he lives ! 

ITurning to Marzio. 
And thou — 



Oh, spare me ! Speak to me no more ! 
That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, 
Wound worse than torture. 

(To the Judges.) I have told it all ; 
For pity's sake lead me away to death. 



176 



THE CENCI. 



Guards, lead him nearer the lady Beatrice, 
He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf 
From the keen breath of the serenest north. 

beathice. 

Oh, thou who tremblest on the giddy verge 
Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me ; 
So mayst thou answer God with less dismay : 
What evil have we done thee ? I, alas ! 
Have lived but on this earth a few sad years, 
And so my lot was ordered, that a father 
First turned the moments of awakening life 
To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope ; and 

then 
Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul, 
And my untainted fame ; and even that peace 
Which sleeps within the core of the heart's hejirt. 
But the wound was not mortal ; so my hate 
Became the only worship I could lift 
To our great Father, who in pity and love, 
Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; 
And thus his wrong becomes my accusation: 
And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest 
Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth : 
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. 
If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path 
Over the trampled laws of God and man. 
Rush not before thy Judge, and say, : " My Maker, 
I have done this and more ; for there was one 
Who was most pure and innocent on earth ; 
And because she endured what never any, 
Guilty or innocent, endured before ; 
Because her wrongs could not be told, nor thought; 
Because thy hand at length did rescue her ; 
I with my words killed hef and all her kin." 
Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 
The reverence living in the minds of men 
Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame ! 
Think what it is to strangle infant pity, 
Cradled in the belief of guileless looks. 
Till it becomes a crime to suffer. Think 
What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood 
All that which shows like innocence, and is, — 
Hear me, great God ! I swear, most innocent, — 
So that the world lose all descrimination 
Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt. 
And that which now compels thee to reply 
To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 
A parricide 1 

MABZIO. 

Thou art not 1 



JUDGE. 



What is this 1 



I here declare those whom I did accuse 
Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. 

JUDGE. 

Drag him away to torments ; let them be 
Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds 
Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not 
Till he confess. 



Torture me as you will : 
A keener pain has wrrung a higher truth 
From my last breath. She is most innocent ! 
Bloodhounds, not men, glutyourselves well withme! 
I will not give you that fine piece of nature 
To rend and ruin. lEiit Marzio, guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What say ye now, my lords ? 

JUDGE. 

Let tortures strain the truth till it be white 
As snow thrice-sifted by the fi'ozen wind. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet stained with blood. 

JUDGE (to BeATIIICE.) 

Know you this paper, lady ] 

BEATRICE. 

Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here 
As my accuser 1 Ha ! wilt thou be he, 
Who art my judge ] Accuser, witness, judge. 
What, all in one 1 Here is Orsmi's name ; 
Where is Orsini 1 Let his eye meet mine. 
What means this scrawl ] Alas ! ye know not what, 
And therefore on the chance that it may be 
Some evil, will ye kill us 1 

Enter an Officer. 

OEFICEH. 

Marzio's dead. 

JUDGE. 

What did he say 1 

OPFICEH. 

Notliing, As soon as we 
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us. 
As one who baffles a deep adversary ; 
And holding his breath, died. 

JUDGE. 

There remains nothing 
But to apply the question to those prisoners. 
Who yet remain stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I overrule 
Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
Of these most innocent and noble persons 
Will use my interest with the Holy Father. 

JUDGE. 

Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile 
Conduct these culprits each to separate cells ; 
And be the engines ready : for this night, 
If the Pope's resolution be as grave, 
Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth 
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. 

[Exeunt, 



SCENE m. 

The Cell of a Prison. 

Beatrice is discovered asleep on a couch. 

Enter BERNARDO. 

BEHNAHDO. 

How gently slumber rests upon her face, 

Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent, 



THE CENCI. 



177 



Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. 
After such torments as she bore last night, 
How light and soft her breathing comes. Ah, me ! 
Methiuks that I shall never sleep again. 
But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest 
From this sweet folded flower, thus — wake ; awake ; 
What, sister, canst thou sleep 1 

BEATRICE ^awaking!) 

I was just dreaming 
That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest 
This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
After our father's presence. 

BEUNAHDO. 

Dear, dear sister, 
Would that thy dream were not a dream ! 0, God ! 
How shall I tell 1 

BEATRICE. 

What would' st thou tell, sweet brother ? 

BERNARDO. 

Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst 
I stand considering what I have to say, 
My heart will break. 

BEATRICE. 

See now, thou makest me weep : 
How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear cliild, 
If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. 

BEBSTABDO. 

They have confessed ; they could endure no more 
The tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Ha ! What was there to confess ] 
They must have told some weak and wicked lie 
To flatter their tormentors. Have they said 
That they were guilty "? O white innocence. 
That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide 
Thine awful and serenest countenance 
From those who know thee not ! 

Enter Judge, with Lucretia and GiS-COvio, guarded. 

Ignoble hearts; 
For some brief spasms of pain, which arc at least 
As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, 
Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust ? 
And that eternal honour which should live 
Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fxme, 
Changed to a mockery and a by-word 1 What ! 
Will you give up these bodies to be dragged 
At horses' heels, so that our hair should sweep 
The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd. 
Who, that they may make our calamity 
Their worship and their spectacle, will leave 
The churches and the theatres as void 
As their own hearts ? Shall the light multitude 
Fling at their choice, curses or faded pity. 
Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse. 
Upon us as we pass, to pass away. 
And leave — 'What memory of our having been 1 
Infamy, blood, terror, despair ] O thou, 
Who wert a mother to the parentless, 
Kill not thy child ! Let not her wrongs kill thee ! 
Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, 
23 



And let us each be silent as a corpse ; 

It soon will be as soft as any grave. 

'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear 

Makes the rack cruel. 

GIACOJIO. 

They will tear the truth 
Even from thee at last, those cruel pains : 
For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 

tUCRETIA. 

0, speak the truth ! Let us all quickly die ; 
And after death, God is our judge, not they ; 
He will have mercy on us. 

BERNARDO. 

If indeed 
It can be true, say so dear sister mine ; 
And then the Pope will surely pardon you, 
And all be well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess, or I will warp 
Your Umbs with such keen tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures! Turn 
The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel ! 
Torture your dog, that he may tell when last 
He lapped the blood his master shed — not me ! 
My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, 
And of the soul ; ay, of the inmost soul, 
Which weeps within tears as of burning gall 
To see, in this ill world where none are true, 
My kindred false to their deserted selves. 
And with considering all the wretched Ufe 
Which 1 have hved, and its now wretched end ; 
And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth 
To me or mine ; and what a tyrant thou art, 
And what slaves these ; and what a world we make, 
The oppressor and the oppressed — such pangs 

compel 
My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me 1 



Art thou not guilty of thy father's death 1 

BEATRICE. 

Or wilt thou rather tax high'judging God 

That he permitted such an act as that 

Which I have suffered, and which he beheld; 

Made it unutterable, and took from it 

All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 

But that which thou hast called my father's death? 

Which is or is not what men call a crime, 

Which either I have done, or have not done; 

Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 

If ye desire it thus, thus let it be. 

And so an end of all. Now do your will ; 

No other pains shall force another word. 

JUDGE. 

She is convicted, but has not confessed. 

Be it enough. Until their final sentence 

Let none have converse with them. You, young 

Linger not here ! [lord, 

BEATRICE. 

O, tear him not away ! 



178 



THE CENCI. 



Guards ! do your duty. 

BERXARDO (embracing Beatrice.) 

Oh ! would ye divide 
Body from soul ? 

OFFICER. 

That is the headsman's business. 
[Exeunt all but Lucretia, Beatrice, and Ciacomo. 

GIACOMO. 

Have I confessed 1 Is it all over now ■? 
No hope ! No refuge 1 O weak, wicked tongue, 
Which hast destroyed m e, would that thou h adst been 
Cut out and thrown to dogs first ! To have killed 
My father first, and then betrayed my sister ; 
Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and pure 
In this black, guilty world, to that which I 
So well deserve ! My wife ! my little ones ! 
Destitute, helpless ; and I — Father ! God ! 
Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving, 
When their full hearts break thus, thus ? — 

[Covers his face and weeps. 

LUCRETIA. 

O, my child ! 
To what a dreadfiil end are we all come ! 
Why did I yield 1 AVhy did I not sustain 
Those torments 1 Oh ! that I were all dissolved 
Into these fast and unavailmg tears, 
Which flow and feel not ! 

BEATRICE. 

What 'twas weak to do, 
'Tis weaker to lament, once being done ; 
Take cheer ! The God who knew my wrong, and 
Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, [made 

Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. 
Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
Brother, sit near me ; give me your firm hand, 
You had a manly heart. Bear up ! bear up ! 
Oh ! dearest lady, put your gentle head 
Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile : 
Your eyes look pale, hollow, and overworn, 
With heaviness of watching and slow grief. 
Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune. 
Not cheerful, nor yet sad ; some dull old thing, 
Some outworn and unused monotony. 
Such as our country gossips sing and spin. 
Till they almost forget they live : lie down ! 
So ; that will do. Have I forgot the words ? 
Faith ! they are sadder than I thought they were. 

SONG. 

False fi-iend, wilt thou smile or weep 
When my life is laid asleep ] 
Little cares for a smile or a tear. 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier ; 

Farewell ! Heigh ho ! 

What is this whispers low 1 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet sleep ! were death like to thee, 
Or if thou couldst mortal be. 



I would close these eyes of pain ; 
When to wake ] Never again. 

World ! farewell ! 

Listen to the passing bell ! 
It says, thou and I must part. 
With a slight and a heavy heart. 

[The scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 

.^ Hall of the Prison. 
Enter Camillo and Bernardo. 



The Pope is stern ; not to be moved or bent. 

He looked as calm and keen as is the engine 

Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself 

From aught that it inflicts ; a marble form, 

A rite, a law, a custom ; not a man. 

He frowned, as if to frovm had been the trick 

Of his machinery, on the advocates 

Presenting the defences, which he tore 

And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh 

voice : 
« Which among ye defended their old father 
Killed in his sleep 1" Then to another: "Thou 
Dost this in virtue of thy place ; 'tis well." 
He turned to me then, looking deprecation, 
And said these three words, coldly : " They must 

die." 

BERXARDO. 

And yet you left him 1 



I urged him still ; 
Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong 
Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. 
And he replied, " Paolo Santa Croce 
Murdered his mother yester evening. 
And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife, 
That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young 
Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
Authority, and power, and hoary hair 
Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, 
You come to ask their pardon : stay a moment ! 
Here is their sentence ; never see me more 
Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled." 

BERNARDO. 

O, God, not so ! I did believe indeed 

That all you said was but sad preparation 

For happy news. 0, there are words and looks 

To bend the sternest purpose ! Once I knew them, 

Now I forget them at my dearest need. 

What think you if I seek him out, and bathe 

His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears 1 

Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain 

With my perpetual cries, until in rage 

He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample 

Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 

May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, 

And remorse waken mercy 1 I will do it I 

O, wait till I return ! [Rushes out.. 



THE CENCI. 



179 



CAMILLO. 

Alas ! poor boy ! 
A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
To the deaf sea. 
Enter Lucretia, Beatrice and Giacomo gaarded. 

BEATRICE. 

I hardly dare to fear 
That thou bringest other news than a just pardon. 

CAMILLO. 

May God in heaven be less inexorable 

To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. 

Here is the sentence and the wrarrant. 



BEATHicE (ivildly,) 



Oh, 



My God ! Can it be possible I have 

To die so suddenly 1 So young to go 

Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! 

To be nailed down into a narrow place ; 

To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more 

Blithe voice of li\ing thing ; muse not again 

Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost ! 

How fearful ! to be nothing ! Or to be — ■ 

What ] O, where am I ] Let me not go mad ! 

Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! If there 

should be 
No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world ; 
The wide, gray, larapless, deep, unpeopled world ! 
If all things then should be — my father's spirit, 
His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me ; 
The atmosphere and breath of my dead life ! 
If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, 
Even the form which tortured me on earth, 
Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come, 
And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix 
His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down ! 
For was he not alone omnipotent 
On Earth, and ever present 1 even though dead, 
Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, 
And work for me and mine still the same ruin, 
Scorn, pain, despair] Who ever yet returned 
To teach the laws of death's untrodden realm 1 
Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, 
O, whither, whither 1 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust in God's sweet love. 
The tender promises of Christ : ere night 
Tliink we shall be in Paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis past ! 
Whatever comes, my heart shall sink no more. 
And yet, I know not why, your words strike chili: 
How tedious, false, and cold seem all things ! I 
Have met with much injustice in this world ; 
No difference has been made by God or man, 
Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 
/i am cut off from the only world I know, \ 

l^From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prima 
You do well telling me to trust in God ; 
I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 
Can any trust 1 And yet my heart is cold. 

l^During the latter speeches Giacomo has retired con- 
versing with CxyuLLO, who now goes out; Gia- 
como advances. 



giacomo. 



Know you not, mother — sister, know you not 
Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
The Pope to grant our pardon 1 

lucretia. 

Child, perhaps 
It will be granted. We may all then live 
To make these woes a tale for distant years : 
O, what a thought ! It gushes to my heart 
Like the warm blood. 



Yet both will soon be cold : 
O, trample out that thought ! Worse than despair. 
Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope : 
It is the only ill which can find place 
Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour 
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost 
That it should spare the eldest flower of spring : 
Plead with awaJiening earthquake, o'er whose couch 
Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free ; 
Now stench and blackness yawns, like death. O, 
With famine, or wind-walking pestilence, [plead, 
Bhnd lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! 
Cruel, cold, formal man : righteous in words. 
In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die ; 
Since such is the reward of innocent hves ; 
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 
And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, 
Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears 
To death, as to life's sleep ; 'twere just the grave 
Were some strangejoyforus. Come, obscure Death, 
And wind me in thine all-embracing arms ! 
Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom. 
And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. 
Live ye, who live, subject to one another 
As we were once, who now — 

Bernardo rushes in. 

BERNARDO. 

O, horrible ! 
That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in 
Even till tlie heart is vacant and despairs, [prayer, 
Should all be vain ! The ministers of death 
Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw 
Blood on the face of one — what if 'twere fancy ? 
Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth 
Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off 
As if 'twere only rain. 0, life ! O, world ! 
Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
That perfect mirror of pure innocence 
Wherein I gazed, and gTCw happy and good. 
Shivered to dust ! To see thee, Beatrice, 
Who made all lovely thou didst look upon — 
Thee, light of life — dead, dark ! while I say, sister. 
To hear I have no sister ; and thou. Mother, 
Whose love was a bond to all our loves — 
Dead ! The sweet bond broken ! 

Enter Camillo and Guards. 

They come ! Let me 
Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves 
Are blighted — white — cold. Say farewell, before 
Death chokes that gentle voice ! O let me hear 
You speak ! 



180 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE CENCI. 



BEATRICE. 

Farewell, my tender brother. Think 
Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now : 
And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee 
Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, 
But tears and patience. One thing more, my child : 
For thine own sake be constant to the love 
Thou bearest us ; and to the faith that I, 
Though wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and 

shame, 
Lived ever holy and unstained. And though 
111 tongues shall wound me, and our common name 
Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow 
For men to point at as they pass, do thou 
Forbear, and never think a thought unkind 
Of those who perhaps love thee in their graves. 



So mayest thou die as I do ; fear and pain 
Being subdued. Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell ! 

BERIfABDO. 

I cannot say farewell ! 

CAMILLO. 

O, Lady Beatrice ! 

BEATHICE. 

Give yourself no unnecessary pain, 

My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie 

My girdle for me, and bind up this hair 

In any simple knot : ay, that does well. 

And yours I see is coming down. How often 

Have we done this for one another ! now 

We shall not do it any more. My Lord, 

We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. 



NOTE ON THE CENCI. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



The sort of mistake that Shelley made, as to 
the extent of his own genius and powers, which 
led him deviously at first, but lastly into the direct 
track that enabled him fully to develope them, is a 
curious instance of his modesty of feeling, and of 
the methods which the human mijid uses at once 
to deceive itself, and yet, m its very delusion, to 
make its way out of en-or into the path which 
nature has marked out as its right one. He often 
incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy — he 
conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, 
and he was always most earnest and energetic in 
his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent 
I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer 
estimate of my powers ; and, above all, though at 
that time not exactly aware of the fact, I was far 
too young to have any chance of succeeding, even 
moderately, in a species of composition, that re- 
quires a greater scope of experience in, and sym- 
pathy with, human passion than could then have 
fallen to my lot, or than any perhaps, except 
Shelley, ever possessed, even at the age of twenty- 
six, at which he wrote the Cenci. 

On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously 
conceived himself to be destitute of this talent. 
He believed that one of the first requisites was the 
capacity of forming and following up a story or 
plot. He fancied himself to be defective in this 
portion of imagination — it was that which gave 
him least pleasure in the %VTitings of others — though 
he laid great store by it, as the proper fi-amework 
to support the sublimest efforts of poetry. He 
asserted that he was too metaphysical and abstract 
— too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to suc- 



ceed as a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that 
I shared this opinion with himself, for he had 
hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any 
specimen of his powers in framing and supporting 
the interest of a story, either in prose or verse. 
Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had 
speedily throvra it aside, as being even disagreeable 
to him as an occupation. 

The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was 
Charles I., and he had written to me, " Remember, 
remember Charles I. I have been already imagin- 
ing how you would conduct some scenes. The 
second volume of St. Leon begins with this proud 
and true sentiment, ' There is nothing which the 
human mind can conceive which it may not exe- 
cute.' Shakspeare was only a hsman, being." 
These words were written in 1818, while we were 
in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a 
work of his own would prove a proud comment on 
the passage he quoted. When in Rome, in 1819, 
a friend put into our hands the old manuscript 
account of the story of the Cenci. We visited the 
Colonna and Doria palaces, where the portraits of 
Beatrice were to be found ; and her beauty cast 
the reflection of its own grace over her appaQing 
story. Shelley's imagination became stiongly ex- 
cited, and he urged the subject to me as one fitted 
for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incom- 
petence ; but I entreated him to write it instead ; 
and he began and proceeded swiftly, urged on by 
intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human 
beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, 
he revived, and gifted with poetic language. This 
tragedy is the only one of his works that he com- 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE CENCI. 



181 



municated to me during its progress. We talked 
over the arrangement of the scenes together. I 
speedily saw the great mistake we had made, and 
triumphed in the discovery of the new talent 
brought to hght from that mine of wealth, never, 
alas ! through his untimely death, worked to its 
depths — his richly-gifted mind. 

We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the 
loss of our eldest child, who was of such beauty 
and promise as to cause him deser\'edly to be the 
idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the 
world, anxious for a time to escape a spot asso- 
ciated too intimately with his presence and loss.* 
Some fiiends of ours were residing in the neigh- 
bourhood ef Leghorn, and we took a small house, 
Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the town 
and Monte Nero, where we remained during the 
summer. Our villa was situated in the nudst of a 
podere ; the peasants sang as they worked beneath 
our windows, during the heats of a very hot sea- 
son, and in the evening the water-wheel cracked as 
the process of irrigation went on, and the fireflies 
flashed from among the myrtle hedges; — nature 
was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified 
by storms of a majestic terror, such as we had 
never before witnessed. 

At the top of the house, there v/as a sort of 
terrace. There is often such in Italy, generally 
roofed. This one was very small, yet not only 
roofed but glazed ; tliis Shelley made his study ; 
it looked out on a wide prospect of fertile country, 
and commanded a view of the near sea. The 
storms that sometimes varied our day showed 
themselves most picturesquely as they were driven 
across the ocean ; sometimes the dark lurid clouds 
dipped towards the waves, and became water- 
spouts, that churned up the waters beneath, as 
they were chased onward, and scattered by the 
tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight 
and heat made it almost intolerable to every 
other; but Shelley basked in both, and his 
health and spirits re\aved under their influence. 
In this airy cell he wrote the principal part of The 
Cenci. He was making a study of Calderon at the 
time, reading his best tragedies with an accom- 
phshed lady living near us, to whom his letter 
fi-om Leghorn was addressed during the following 
year. He admired Calderon, both for his poetry 

* Such feelings haunted him when, in the Cenci, he 
makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Caniillo of 
that fair blue-eyed child, 
Who was the loadstar of your life. 
And say — 
All see, since his most piteous death, 
That day and nisht, and heaven and earth, and time, 
And all the things hoped for, or done therein, 
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief. 



and his dramatic genius ; but it shows his judg- 
ment and originality, that, though greatly struck 
by his first acquaintance with the Spanish poet, 
none of his peculiarities crept into the composition 
of The Cenci; and there is no trace of his new 
studies, except in that passage to which he himself 
alludes, as suggested by one in El Purgatorio de 
San Patricio. 

Shelley wished The Cenci to be acted. He was 
not a play-goer, being of such fastidious taste that 
he was easily disgusted by the bad fiUing up of the 
inferior parts. While preparing for our departure 
from England, however, he saw Miss O'Ncil 
several times ; she was then in the zenith of her 
glory, and Shelley was deeply moved by her im- 
personation of several parts, and by the graceful 
sweetness, the intense pathos, and subhme vehe- 
mence of passion she displayed. She was often in 
his thoughts as he wTote, and when he had finished, 
he became anxious that his tragedy should be 
acted, and receive the advantage of having this 
accomplished actress to fill the part of the heroine. 
With this view he wrote the following letter to A 
ftiend in London: 

« The object of the present letter is to ask a 
favour of you. I have written a tragedy on a story 
well known in Italy and, in my conception, emi- 
nently dramatic. I have taken some pains to 
make my play fit for representation, and those 
who have already seen it judge favourably. It is 
written without any of the peculiar feelings and 
opinions which characterize my other compositions ; 
I having attended simply to the impartial develope- 
ment of such characters as it is probable the per- 
sons represented really were, together with the 
greatest degree of popular effect to be produced 
by such a developement I send you a translation 
of the Italian MS. on which my play is founded ; 
the chief circumstance of which I have touched 
very delicately ; for my principal doubt as to 
whether it would succeed, as an acting play, hangs 
entirely on the question as to whether any such a 
thing as incest in this shape, however treated, 
would be admitted on the stage. I think, however, 
it will form no objection, considering, first, that 
the facts are matters of history, and, secondly, the 
peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it.* 

«I am exceedingly interested in the question 
of whether this attempt of mine will succeed or not. 

* In speaking of his mode of treating this main inci- 
dent, Shelley said that it might be remarked that, in the 
course of the play, he had never mentioned expressly 
Cencv's worst crime. Everyone knew what it must be, 
but it was never imaged in words— the nearest allusion 
to it being tiiat portion of Cenci's curse, beginning, 
" That if she have a child," &c. 
Q 



182 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE CENCI. 



I am strongly inclined to the affirmative at present ; 
founding my hopes on this, that as a composition 
it is certainly not inferior to any of the modem 
plays that have been acted, with the exception of 
' Remorse ;' that the interest of the plot is incredibly 
greater and more real, and that there is nothing 
beyond what the multitude are contented to be- 
lieve that they can understand, either in imagery, 
opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a com- 
plete incognito, and can trust to you that, what- 
ever else you do, you will at least favour me on 
this point. Indeed this is essential, deeply essential 
to its success. After it had been acted and suc- 
cessfully, (could I hope for such a thing) I would 
own it if I pleased, and use the celebrity it might 
acquire to my own purposes. 

" What I want you to do, is to procure for me 
its presentation at Covent Garden. The principal 
character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for Miss 
O'Neil, and it might even seem to have been 
written for her, (God forbid that I should see her 
play it — it would tear my nerves to pieces,) and in 
all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. 
The chief male character I confess I should be 
very unwilling that any one but Kean should 
play — that is impossible, and I must be contented 
with an inferior actor." 

The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris, 
He pronounced the subject to be so objectionable, 
that he could not even submit the part to Miss 
O'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that 
the author would write a tragedy on some other 
subject, which he would gladly accept Shelley 
printed a small edition at Leghorn, to insure its 
correctness ; as he was much annoyed by the many 
mistakes that crept into his text, when distance 
prevented him from correcting tlie press. 

Universal approbation soon stamped The Cenci 
as the best tragedy of modern times. Writing 
concerning it, Shelley said : " I have been cautious 
to avoid the introducing faults of youthful com- 



position ; diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable 
imagery, vagueness, generality, and, as Hamlet 
says, words, ivords." There is nothing that is not 
purely dramatic throughout ; and the character of 
Beatrice, proceeding from vehement struggle to 
horror, to deadly resolution, and lastly, to the 
elevated dignity of calm suffering joined to pas- 
sionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with 
hues so vivid and so beautiful, that the poet seems 
to have read intimately the secrets of the noble 
heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the un- 
fortunate girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. 
It is the finest thing he ever wrote, and may claim 
proud comparison not only with any contemporary, 
but preceding poet. The varying feelings of 
Beatrice are expressed with passionate, heart- 
reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice 
that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to 
one acquainted with the written story, to mark 
the success with which the poet has inwoven the 
real incidents of the tragedy mto his scenes, and 
yet, through the power of poetry, has obliterated 
all that would otherwise have shown too harsh or 
too hideous in the pictm'e. His success was a 
double triumph ; and often after he was earnestly 
entreated to write again in a style that commanded 
popular favour, while it was not less instinct with 
truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went 
the other way ; and even when employed on sub- 
jects whose interest depended on character and in- 
cident, he would start off in another direction, and 
leave the delineations of human passion, which he 
could depict in so able a manner, for fantastic 
creations of his fancy, or the expression of those 
opinions and sentiments with regard to human 
nature and its destiny ; a desire to diffuse which, 
was the master passion of his soul. 

Finding among my papers the account of the 
case of the Cenci family, translated firora the old 
Roman MS., wi'itten at the period when the dis- 
astrous events it commemorates occurred, I append 
it here, as the perusal must interest every reader. 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



183 



RELATION 



THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 



The most wicked life which the Roman noble- 
man, Francesco Cenci, led while he lived in this 
world, not only occasioned his own ruin and 
death, but also that of many others, and brought 
down the entire destruction of his house. This 
nobleman was the son of Monsignore Cenci, who 
having been treasurer during the pontificate of 
Pius v., left immense wealth to Francesco, his 
only son. From this inheritance alone he enjoyed 
an income of 160,000 crowns, and he increased 
his fortune by marrying an exceedingly rich lady, 
who died after she had given birth to seven unfor- 
tunate children. He then contracted a second 
marriage with Lucretia Petroni, a lady of a noble 
Roman family ; but he had no children by her. 
Sodomy was the least, and atheism the greatest, 
of the vices of Francesco ; as is proved by the tenor 
of his life ; for he was three times accused of 
sodomy, and paid the sum of 100,000 crowns to 
government, in commutation of the punishment 
rightfully awarded to this crime : and concerning 
his religion, it is sufficient to state, that he never 
frequented any church ; and although he caused a 
small chapel, dedicated to the apostle St. Thomas, 
to be built in the court of his palace, his intention 
in so doing was to bury there all his children, 
whom he cruelly hated. He had driven the eldest 
of these, Giacomo, Cristofero, and Rocco, from the 
paternal mansion, while they were yet too young 
to have given him any real cause of displeasure. 
He sent them to the university of Salamanca, but, 
refusing to remit to them there the money neces- 
sary for their maintenance, they desperately re- 
turned home. They found that this change only 
increased their misery, for the hatred and contempt 
of their father towards them was so aggravated, that 
he refused to dress or maintain them, so that they 
were obliged to have recourse to the Pope, who 
caused Cenci to make them a fit allowance, with 
with which they withdrew from his house. 

The third imprisonment of Francesco, for his 
accustomed crime of sodomy, occurred at this time, 
and his sons took occasion to supphcate the Pope 
to punish their father, and to remove so great a 
monster from his family. The Pope, though be- 
fore inclined to condemn Francesco to the deserved 
punishment of death, would not do it at the re- 
quest of his sons, but permitted him again to com- 
pound with the law, by paying the accustomed 
penalty of 100,000 crowns. The hatred of Fran- 
cesco towards his sons was augmented by this 
proceeding on their parts; he cursed them; and 
often also struck and ill-treated his daughters. The 
24 



eldest of these, being unable any longer to support 
the cruelty of her father, exposed her miserable 
condition to the Pope, and supphcated him either 
to marry her, according to his choice, or to shut 
her up in a monastery, that by any means she 
might be liberated from the cruel oppression of her 
parent. Her prayer was heard, and the Pope, in 
pity to her unhappiness, bestowed her in marriage 
to Signore Carlo Gabrielli, one of the first gentle- 
men of the city of Gabbio, and obhged Francesco 
to give her a fitting dowry of some thousand 
crovms. 

Francesco fearing that his youngest daughter 
would, when she grew up, follow the example of 
her sister, bethought himself how to hinder this 
design, and for that purpose shut her up alone in 
an apartment of the palace, where he himself 
brought her food, so that no one might approach 
her ; and imprisoned her in tliis manner for several 
months, often inflicting on her blows with a stick. 

In the mean time ensued the death of two of his 
sons, Rocco and Cristofero — one being assassi- 
nated by a surgeon, and the other by Paolo Corso, 
while he was attending mass. The inhuman 
father showed every sign of joy on hearing this 
news, saying that nothing would exceed his plea- 
sure if all his children died, and that when the 
grave should receive the last he would, as a de- 
monstration of joy, make a bonfire of all that he 
possessed. And on the present occasion, as a fur- 
ther sign of his hatred, he refused to pay the 
smallest sum towards the funeral expenses of his 
murdered sons. 

Francesco carried his wicked deliauchery to such 
an excess, that he caused girls, ^of whom he con- 
stantly kept a number in his house,) and also 
common courtezans, to sleep in the bed of his wife, 
and often endeavoured, by force and threats, to 
debauch his daughter Beatrice, who was now 
grown up, and excceduigly beautiful — * 



Beatrice, finding it impossiljle to continue to 
live in so miserable a manner, followed the exam- 
ple of her sister ; she sent a well-written supphca- 
tion to the Pope, imploring him to exercise his au- 
thority in withdrawing her fi-om the violence and 
cruelty of her father. — But this petition, which 
might, if listened to, have saved this unfortunate 
girl firom an early death, produced not the least 



* The details here are horrible, and unfit for publication. 
q2 



184 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



effect. It was afterwards found among the collec- 
tion of memorials, and it is pretended that it never 
came before the Pope. 

Francesco, having discovered this attempt on 
the part of his daughter, became more enraged, 
and redoubled his tyranny ; confining ■nith rigour 
not only Beatrice, but also lus wife. At length, 
these unhappy women, finding themselves without 
hope of relief, driven by desperation, resolved to 
plan his death. 

The Palace Cenci was sometimes visited by a 
Monsignore Guerra — a young man of handsome 
person and attractive manners, and of that facile 
character which might easily be induced to become 
a partner in any action, good or evil, as it might 
happen. His countenance was pleasmg, and his 
person tall and well proportioned ; he was some- 
what in love with Beatrice, and well acquainted 
with the turpitude of Francesco's character, and 
was hated by him on account of the familiar inter- 
course which subsisted between him and the 
children of this vmnatural father: for this reason 
he timed his visits with caution, and never came 
to the house but when he knew that Francesco 
was absent. He was moved to a lively compas- 
sion of the state of Lucretia and Beatrice, who 
often related their increasing misery to him, and 
his pity was for ever fed and augmented by some 
new tale of tyranny and cruelty. In one of these 
conversations Beatrice let fall some words which 
plainly indicated that she and her mother-in-law 
contemplated the murder of their tyrant, and Mon- 
signore Guerra not only showed approbation of 
their design, but also promised to co-operate with 
them in their undertaking. Thus stimulated, Bea- 
trice communicated the design to her eldest bro- 
ther, Giacomo, without whose concurrence it was 
impossible that they should succeed. This latter 
was easily drawn into consent, since he was utterly 
disgusted with his father, who ill-treated him, and 
refiised to allow him a sufficient support for his 
wife and children. 

The apartments of Monsignore Guerra was the 
place in which the circumstances of the crime 
about to be committed were concerted and deter- 
mined on. Here Giacomo, with the understanding 
of his sister and mother-in-law, held various con- 
sultations, and finally resolved to commit the mur- 
der of Francesco to two of his vassals, who had 
become his inveterate enemies ; one called Marzio, 
and the other Olympio : the latter, by means of 
Francesco, had been deprived of his post as cas- 
tellan of the rock of Petrella. 

It was already well known that Francesco, with 
the permission of Signer Marzio di Colonna, baron 
of that feud, had resolved to retire to Petrella, and 
to pass the summer there with his family. Some 
banditti of the kingdom of Naples were hn-cd, and 
were instructed to lie in wait in the woods about 
Petrella, and, upon advice being given to them of 
the approach of Francesco, to seize upon him. 
This scheme was so arranged that, although the 
robbers were only to seize and take off Francesco, 
yet that his wife and children should not be sus. 
pected of being accomplices in the act. But the 



affair did not succeed; for, as the banditti were 
not informed of his approach in time enough, 
Francesco anived safe and sound at Petrella. 
They were obliged therefore to form some new 
scheme to obtain the end which every day made 
them more impatient to effect : for Francesco still 
persisted in his wicked conduct. He being an old 
man, above seventy years of age, never quitted 
the castle ; therefore no use could be made of the 
banditti, who were still secreted m the environs. 
It was determmed, therefore, to accomplish the 
nmrder in Francesco's own house. 

Marzio and Olympio were called to the castle ; 
and Beatrice, accompanied by her mother-in-law, 
conversed with them fi-om a window during the 
nighttim^e, when her father slept. She ordered 
them to repair to Monsignore Guerra with a note, 
in which they were desired to murder Francesco, 
in consideration of a reward of a thousand crowns : 
a third to be given them before the act, by Mon- 
signore Guerra, and the other two thirds, by the 
ladies themselves, after the deed should be accom- 
plished. Having consented to this agreement, they 
were secretly admitted into the castle the 8th of 
September, 1598 ; but because this day was the 
anniversary of the birth of the Blessed Virgin, the 
Signora Lucretia, held back by her veneration for 
so holy a time, desired, with the consent of her 
daughter-in-law, that the execution of the mordex 
should be put off until the following day. They 
dexterously mixed opium with the drink of Fran- 
cesco, who, upon going to bed, was soon oppressed 
by a deep sleep. About midnight his daughter 
herself led the two assassms into the apartment of 
her father, and left them there that they might 
execute the deed they had undertaken, and retired 
to a chamber close by, where Lucretia remained 
also, expecting the return of the murderers, and 
the relation of their success. Soon after the as- 
sassins entered, and told the ladies that pity had 
held them back, and that they could not overcome 
their repugnance to kill in cold blood a poor sleep- 
ing old man. These words filled Beatrice with 
anger, and after having bitterly reviled them as 
cowards and traitors, she exclaimed, " Since you 
have not courage enough to murder a sleeping 
man, I will kill my father myself; but your lives 
shall not be long secure." The assassins, hearing 
this short but terrible threat, feared that if they did 
not commit the deed, the tempest would burst 
over their own heads, took courage, and re-entered 
the chamber where Francesco slept, and with a 
hammer drove a nail into his head, making it pass 
by liis eye, and another they drove into his neck. 
After a few struggles the unhappy Francesco 
breathed his last. The murderers departed, after 
ha\ang received the remainder of the promised re- 
ward ; besides which, Beatrice gave Marzio a 
mantle trimmed with gold. After this the two 
ladies, after dramng out the two nails, enveloped 
the body in a fine sheet, and earned it to an open 
gallery that overhung a garden, and had under- 
neath an elder tree : from thence they threw it 
down, so that it might be believed that Francesco, 
attending a call of nature, was traversing this gal- 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



185 



lery, when, being only supported by feeble beams, 
it had given way, and thus had lost his life. 

And so indeed was it believed the next day, 
when the feigned lamentations of Lucretia and 
Beatrice, who appeared inconsolable, spread the 
news of Francesco's death. He received an ho- 
nourable burial ; and his family, after a short stay 
at the castle, returned to Rome to enjoy the fruits 
of their crime. They passed some time there in 
tranquillity ; but Divine Justice, which would not 
allow so atrocious a wickedness to remain hid and 
unpunished, so ordered it, that the Court of Na- 
ples, to which the account of the death of Cenci 
was forwarded, began to entertain doubts concern- 
ing the mode by which he came by it, and sent a 
commissary to examine the body and to take infor- 
mations. Among other things, this man disco- 
vered a circumstance to the prejudice of the family 
of the deceased : it appeared that the day after the 
event of her father's death, Beatrice had given to 
wash a sheet covered with blood, saying : 



These informations were instantly forwarded to 
the Court of Rome ; but, nevertheless, several 
months passed without any step being taken in 
disfavour of the Cenci family ; and, in the mean 
time, the youngest son of Francesco died, and two 
only remained of the five that he had had ; namely, 
Giacomo and Bernardo. Monsignore Guerra, 
having heard of the notification made by the 
Court of Naples to that of Rome, fearing that 
Marzio and Olympio might fall into the hands of 
justice, and be induced to confess their crime sud- 
denly hired men to murder them, but succeeded 
only in assassinating Olympio at the city of Terni. 
Marzio, who had escaped this misfortune, soon in- 
curred that of being imprisoned at Naples, where 
he confessed the whole ; and instantly, while the 
arrival of Marzio at Rome fi'om Naples was ex- 
pected, Giacomo and Bernardo were arrested, and 
imprisoned in the Corte Savella, and Lucretia and 
Beatrice were confined in their own house under 
a good guard ; but afterwards they were also con- 
ducted to the prison where were the brothers. 
They were here examined, and all constantly de- 
nied the crime, and particularly Beatrice, who also 
denied having given to Marzio the mantle trimmed 
with gold, of which mention was before made ; 
and Marzio, overcome and moved by the presence 
of mind and courage of Beatrice, retracted all that 
he had deposed at Naples, and, rather than again 
confess, obstinately died under his torments. 

There not being sufficient proof to justify put- 
ting the Cenci family to the torture, they were all 
transferred to Castello, where they remained seve- 
ral months in tranquillity. But, for their misfor- 
tune, one of the murderers of Olympio at Terni 
fell into the hands of justice ; he confessed that 
he had been hired to this deed by Monsignore 
Guerra, who had also commissioned him to assas- 
sinate Marzio. Fortunately for this prelate, he 
received prompt information of the testimony given 
against him, and was able to hide himself for a 
24 



time, and to plan his escape, which was very diffi- 
cult ; for his stature, the fairness and beauty of his 
countenance, and his light hair, made him con- 
spicuous for discovery. He changed his dress for 
that of a charcoal-man blackening his face, and 
shaving his head ; and thus disguised, driving two 
asses before him, with some bread and onions in 
his hands, he passed freely through Rome, under 
the eyes of the ministers of justice, who sought 
him every where ; and, without being recognised 
by any one, passed out of one of the gates of the 
city, where, after a short time, he was met by the 
sbirri, who were searching the country, and passed 
unknown by them, not without suffering great fear 
at his risk of being discovered and arrested : by 
means of this ingenious disguise he effected his 
escape to a safe country. 

The flight of Monsignore Guerra, joined to the 
confession of the murderer of Olympio, aggravated 
the other proofs so much, that the Cenci were re- 
transferred from Castello to Corte Savella, and 
were condemned to be put to the torture. The 
two sons sank vilel}^ under their torments, and be- 
came convicted ; Lucretia, being of advanced age, 
having completed her fiftieth year, and being of a 
fat make, was not able to resist the tortiu-e of the 
cord — [The original is wanting.'^ — rBut the Sig- 
nora Beatiice, being young, lively, and strong, 
neither with good nor ill treatment, with menaces, 
nor fear of torture, would allow a single word to 
pass her lips which might inculpate her ; and even, 
by her lively eloquence, confused the judges who 
examined her. The Pope, being informed of all 
that passed by Sign or Ulj'sse Moracci, the judge 
employed in this affair, became suspicious that the 
beauty of Beatrice had softened the mind of this 
judge, and committed the cause to another, who 
found out another mode of torment, called the tor- 
ture of the hair ; and when she was already tied 
under this torture, he brought before her her mo- 
ther-in-law and brothers. They began altogether 
to exhort her to confess; saying, that since the 
crime had been committed, they must suffer the 
punishment. Beatrice, after some resistance, said, 
" So you all wish to die, and to disgrace and ruin 

our house 1 This is not right ; but since it so 

pleases 3rou, so let it be :" — and turning to the 
jailers, she told them to unliind her, and that all 
the examinations might be brought to her, saymg, 
" That which I ought to confess, that will I con- 
fess ; that to which I ought to assent, to that will 
I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that 
will I deny :" — and in this manner she was con- 
victed without having confessed. They were then 
all unbound ; and, since it was now five months 
since all had m.et, they wished to eat together that 
day : but, three days afterwards, they were again 
divided — the ladies being left in the Corte Savella, 
and the brothers being transferred to the dungeons 
of the Tordinona. 

The Pope, after having seen all the examinations, 
and the entire confessions, ordered that the delin- 
quents should be drawn through the streets at the 
tails of horses, and afterwards decapitated. Many 
cardinals and princes interested themselves, and 
q2 



186 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



entreated that at least they might be allowed to 
draw up their defence. The Pope at first refused 
to comply, replying with severity, and asking these 
intercessors what defence had been allowed to 
Francesco, when he had been so barbarously mur- 
dered m his sleep; but afterwards he yielded to 
allow them twenty-five days' time. The most 
celebrated Roman advocates undertook to defend 
the criminals; and, at the end of the appointed 
time, brought their writings to the Pope. The first 
that spoke was the advocate Nicolas di Angelis ; 
but the Pope interrupted him angrily in the middle 
of his discourse, saying, that he greatly wondered 
that there existed in Rome children unnatural 
enough to kill their father ; and that there should 
be found advocates depraved enough to defend so 
horrible a crime. These words silenced all except 
the advocate Farinacci ; who said, « Holy Father, 
we have not fallen at your feet to defend the atro- 
city of the crime, but to save the lite of the inno- 
cent, when your holiness will deign to hear us." 
The Pope listened patiently to him for four hours, 
and then, taking the writings, dismissed them. The 
advocate Altieri, who was the last to depart, turned 
back, and, throwing himself at the feet of the Pope, 
said, that his oflice as advocate to the poor would 
not allow him to refuse to appear in this affair; and 
the Pope replied that he was not surprised at the 
part that he, but at that which the others had 
taken. Instead of retiring to rest, he spent the 
whole night in studying the cause with the Car- 
dinal di San Marcello — noting with great care the 
most exculpating passages of the writing of the 
advocate Farinacci; with which he became so 
satisfied, that he gave hope of granting a pardon 
to the criminals : for the crimes of the father and 
cliiluren were contrasted and balanced in this writ- 
ing ; and to save the sons, the greater guilt was 
attributed to Beatrice; and thus, by saving the 
mother-in-law, the daughter might the more easily 
escape, who was dragged, as it were, to the com- 
mitting so enormous a crime by the cruelty of her 
father. The Pope, therefore, that the criminals 
might enjoy the benefit of time, ordered them again 
to be confined in secret. But since, by the high 
dispensation of Providence, it was resolved that 
they should incur the just penalty of parricide, it 
so happened, that at this time Paola Santa Croce 
killed his mother in the town of Subiaco, because 
she refused to give up her inheritance to him. And 
the Pope, upon the occurrence of this second crime 
of this nature, resolved to punish those guilty of 
the first ; and the more so, because the matricide 
Santa Croce had escaped fi-om the vengeance of the 
law by flight. The Pope returned to Monte Ca- 
vallo the 6th of May, that he might consecrate the 
next morning, in the neighbouring church of S. 
Maria degli Angeli, the Cardinal Diveristiana, ap- 
pointed by him to be bishop of Olumbre, on the 
3d of May of the same year, 1599: on the 10th 
of May he called into his presence Monsignore 
Ferrante Taverna, governor of Rome, and said to 
him, " I give up into your hands the Cenci cause, 
that you may as soon as you can execute the jus- 
tice allotted to them." As soon as the governor 



arrived at his palace, he communicated the sentence 
to, and held a council with, the criminal judge, 
concerning the manner of death to be inflicted on 
the criminals. Many nobles instantly hastened to 
the palaces of the Quirinal and the Vatican, to 
implore the grace of at least a private death for the 
ladies, and the pardon of the innocent Bernardo; 
and, fortunately, they were in time to save the life 
of this youth, because many hours were necessarily 
employed in preparing the scaffold over the bridge 
of S. Angelo, and then in waiting for the Confra- 
ternity of Mercy, who were to accompany the con- 
demned to the place of suffering. 

The sentence was executed the morning of Sa- 
turday, the 1 1th of May. The messengers charged 
with the communication of the sentence, and the 
Brothers of the Conforteria, were sent to the several 
prisons at five the preceding night ; and at six the 
sentence of death was communicated to the un- 
happy brothers while they were placidly sleeping. 
Beatrice on hearing it broke into a piercing lament- 
ation, and into passionate gesture, exclaiming, 
" How is it possible, O my God ! that I must so 
suddenly die?" Lucretia, as prepared, and already 
resigned to her fate, listened without terror to the 
reading of this tenible sentence ; and with gentle 
exhortations induced her daughter-in-law to enter 
the chapel with her ; and the latter, whatever ex- 
cess she might have indulged in on the first inti- 
mation of a speedy death, so much the more now 
courageously supported herself, and gave every one 
certain proofs of an humble resignation. Having 
requested that a notary might be allowed to come 
to her, and her request bemg granted, she made 
her will, in which she left 15,000 crowns to the 
Fraternity of the Sacre Stimmate ; and willed that 
all her dowry should be employed in portioning for 
marriage fifty maidens : and Lucretia, imitating the 
example of her daughter-in-law, ordered that she 
should ])e buried in the church of S. Gregorio at 
Monte Celio, with 32,000 crowns for charitable 
uses, and made other legacies ; after which they 
passed some time in the Conforteria, reciting psalms 
and litanies and other prayers, with so much fer- 
vour, that it well appeared that they were assisted 
by the peculiar grace of God. At eight o'clock 
they confessed, heard mass, and received the holy 
communion. Beatrice, considering that it was not 
decorous to appear before the judges and on the 
scaffold with their splendid dresses, ordered two 
dresses, one for herself, and the other for her mother- 
in-law, made in the manner of the nuns — gathered 
up, and with long sleeves of black cotton for Lu- 
cretia, and of common silk for herself; with a large 
cord girdle. When these dresses came, Beatrice 
rose, and, turning to Lucretia — "Mother," said 
she, " the hour of our departure is drawing near, 
let us dress therefore in these clothes, and let us 
mutually aid one another in this last office." Lu- 
cretia readily complied with this invitation, and 
they dressed, each helping the other, showing the 
same indiiTerence and pleasure as if they were 
dressing for a feast. 

The Company of Mercy arrived soon aft^er at 
the prisons of the Torduiona ; and while they were 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



187 



waiting below in the street with the crucifix, until 
the condemned should descend, an accident hap- 
pened, which gave rise to such a tumult among the 
immense crowd there collected, that there was 
danger of much disorder. It thus happened ; some 
foreign gentlemen, who were posted at a high win- 
dow, inadvertently threw down a flower-pot which 
was outside the window, which falling on one of 
the brothers of the Order of Mercy, mortally wound- 
ed him. This caused a disturbance in the crowd; 
and those who were too far off to know the cause, 
took flight, and falling one over the other, several 
were wounded. When the tumult was calmed, 
the brothers Giacomo and Bernardo descended to 
the door of the prison, near which opportunely 
happened to be some fiscal officers, who, going up 
to Bernardo, told him that through the clemency 
of the sovereign pontiff, his life was spared to him, 
with this condition, that he should be present at the 
death of his relations. A scarlet mantle trimmed 
with gold, in which he had at first been conducted 
to prison, was given him, to envelope him. Giaco- 
mo was already on the car, when the placet of the 
Pope arrived, freeing him fi'om the severer portion 
of the punishment added to the sentence, and or- 
dering that it should be executed only by the ham- 
mer and quartering. 

The fimereal procession passed through the Via 
dell' Orso, by the ApoIUnara, thence through the 
Piazza Navona ; from the church of S. Pantalio to 
the Piazza Pollarola, through the Campo di Fiori, 
S. Carlo a Castinari, to the Arco de' Conte Cenci ; 
proceeding, it stopped under the Palace Cenci, and 
then finally rested at the Corte Savella, to take the 
two ladies. When these arrived, Lucretia remained 
last, dressed in black, as has been described, with 
a veil of the same colour, which covered her as far 
as her girdle : Beatrice was beside her, also co- 
vered by a veil : they wore velvet slippers, with 
silk roses and gold fastenings ; and, instead of ma- 
nacles, their wrists were bound by a silk cord, 
which was fastened to their girdles in such a man- 
ner as to give them almost the fi'ce use of their 
hands. Each had in her left hand the holy sign 
of benediction, and in the right a handkerchief, 
with which Inicretia wiped her tears, and Beatrice 
the perspiration from her forehead. Being anived 
at the place of punishment, Bernardo was left on 
the scaffold, and the others were conducted to the 
chapel. During this dreadful separation, this un- 
fortunate youth, reflecting that he was soon going 
to behold the decapitation of his nearest relatives, 
fell down in a deadly swoon, from which, however, 
he was at last recovered, and seated opposite the 
block. The first that came forth to die was Lucre- 
tia, who, being fat, found difficulty in placing her- 
self to receive the blow. The executioner taking 
off her handkerchief, her neck was discovered, 
which was still handsome, although she was fifty 
years of age. Blushing deeply, she cast her eyes 
down, and then, casting them up to heaven, fiill of 
tears, she exclaimed, " Behold, dearest Jesus, this 
guilty soul about to appear before thee — to give an 
account of its acts, mingled with many crimes. 
When it shall appear before thy Godhead, I pray 



thee to look on it with an eye of mercy, and not 
of justice." She then began to recite the psalm 
Miserere viei Deus, and placing her neck under 
the axe, the head was struck fi^om her body while 
she was repeating the second verse of this psalm, 
at the words et secundum multitudinem. W^hen 
the executioner raised the head, the populace saw 
with wonder that the countenance long retained 
its vivacity, until it was wrapt up in a black hand- 
kerchief, and placed in a corner of the scaff'old. 
While the scaffold was being arranged for Beatrice, 
and whilst the Brotherhood returned to the chapel 
for her, the balcony of a shop filled with spectators 
fell, and five of those underneath were wounded, 
so that two died a few days after. Beatrice, hear- 
ing the noise, asked the executioner if her mother 
had died well, and being replied that she had, she 
knelt before the crucifix, and spoke thus : — " Be 
thou everlastingly thanked, O my most gracious 
Saviour, since, by the good death of my mother, 
thou hast given me assurance of thy mercy towards 
me." Then, rising, she courageously and devoutly 
walked towards the scaffold, repeating by the way 
several prayers, with so much fervour of spirit, that 
all who heard her shed tears of compassion. As- 
cending the scaffold, while she arranged herself, 
she also tui^ned her eyes to heaven, and thus 
prayed : — " Most beloved Jesus, who, rehnquishing 
thy divinity, becamest a man ; and didst through 
love purge my sinful soul also of its original sin 
with thy precious blood ; deign, I beseech thee, to 
accept that which I am about to shed at thy most 
merciful tribunal, as a penalty which may cancel 
my many crimes, and spare me a part of that pu- 
nishment justly due to me." Then she placed her 
head under the axe, which at one blow was divided 
fi-om her body, as she was repeating the second 
verse of the psalm De profundis, at the words 
Jiant ttures tuse; the blow gave a violent motion 
to her body, and discomposed her dress. The exe- 
cutioner raised the head to the view of the people, 
and in placing it in the coffin placed underneath, 
the cord by which it was suspended slipped froni 
his hold, and the head fell to the ground, shedding 
a great deal of blood, which was wiped up with 
water and sponges. 

On the death of his sister, Bernardo again 
fainted: the most eflScacious remedies were for 
some time uselessly employed upon him; and il 
was believed by all that his second swoon, ha^^ng 
found him already overcome and without strength, 
had deprived him of life. At length, after tha 
lapse of a quarter of an hour, he came to himself, 
and by slow degrees recovered the use of his senses 
Giacomo was then conducted to the scaffold, and 
the executioner took from him the mourning cloak 
which enveloped him. He fixed his eyes on Ber- 
nardo, and then, turning, addressed the people with 
a loud voice; "Now that I am about to present 
myself before the Tribunal of infallible Truth, I 
swear that if my Saviour, pardoning me my faults, 
shall place in the road to salvation, I will inces- 
sently pray for the preservation of his Holiness, 
who has spared me the aggravation of punishment 
but too much due to my enormous crime, and 



188 



RELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE CENCI FAMILY. 



has granted life to my bi-othcr Bernardo, who is 
most innocent of the guilt of parricide, as I have 
constantly declared in all my examinations. It 
only afflicts me in these my last moments, that he 
should have been obliged to be present at so fatal 
a scene : but since, O my God, it has so pleased 
\hQe,Jiat voluntas tua.'' After speaking thus, he 
knelt down : the executioner blinded his eyes, and 
tied his legs to the scaflTold, gave him a blow on 
the temple with a leaded hammer, cut off his head, 
and cut his bodjr into four pieces, which were fixed 
on the hooks of the scaffolding. 

When the last penalty of justice was over, Ber- 
nardo was reconducted to the prison of the Tordi- 
nona, where he was soon attacked by a burning 
fever ; he was bled and received other remedies, so 
that in the end he recovered his health, though not 
without great suffering. The bodies of Lucretia 
and Beatrice were left at the end of the bridge 
until the evening, illuminated by two torches, and 
surrounded by so gi-eat a concourse of people, that 
it was impossible to cross the bridge. An hour 
after dark, the body of Beatrice was placed in a 
coffin, covered by a black velvet pall, richly adorned 
with gold : garlands of flowers were placed, one 
at her head, and another at her feet ; and the body 
was strewed with flowers. It was accompanied to 
the church of S. Peter in Montorio by the Brother- 
hood of the Order of Mercy, and followed by many 
Franciscan monks, with great pomp and innumer- 
able torches ; she was there buried before the high 
altar, after the customary ceremony had been per- 
formed. By reason of the distance of the church 
irom the bridge, it was four hotirs after dark before 
the ceremony was finished. Afterwards the body 
of Lucretia, accompanied in the same manner, was 
carried to the church of S. Gregorio upon the Ce- 
lian Hill; where, after the ceremony, it was 
honourably buried. 

Beatrice was rather tall, of a fair complexion ; 
and she had a dimple on each cheek, which 
especially when she smiled, added a grace to her 
lovely countenance that transported eveiy one who 
beheld her. Her hair appeared like threads of 
gold ; and because they were extremely long, she 



used to tie it up, and when afterwards she loosened 
it, the splendid ringlets dazzled the eyes of the 
spectator. Her eyes were of a deep blue, pleasing 
and full of fire. To all these beauties she added, 
both in words and actions, a spirit and a majestic 
vivacity that captivated every one. She was twenty 
years of age when she died. 

Lucretia was as tall as Beatrice, but her full 
make made her appear less : she was also fair, and 
so fi-esh complexioned, that at fift}'-, which was her 
age when she died, she did not appear above thirty. 
Her hair was black, and her teeth regular and 
white to an extraordinary degree. 

Giacomo was of a middle age ; fair but ruddy ; 
and with black eyebrows : affable in his nature, of 
good address, and well skilled in every science, 
and in all knightly exercises. He was not more 
than twenty-eight years of age when he died. 

Lastly, Bernardo so closely resembled Beatrice 
in complexion, features, and every thing else, that 
if the}^ had changed clothes the one might easily 
have been taken for the other. His mind also 
seemed formed in the same model as that of his 
sister ; and at the time of her death he was six-and- 
twenty years old. 

He remained in the prison of Tordinona until the 
month of September of the same year, after which 
time, at the intercession of the Most Venerable 
Grand Brotherhood of the Most Holy Crucifix of 
St. Marcellus, he obtained the favour of his liberty 
upon paying the sum of 25,000 crowns to the 
Hospital of the Most Holy Trinity of Pilgrims. 
Thus he, as the sole remnant of the Cenci family, 
became heir to all their possessions. He is now 
married, and has a son named Cristofero. 

The most faithftil portrait of Beatrice exists in 
the Palace of the Villa Pamfili, without the gate of 
San Pancrazio : if any other is to be found in the 
Palazza Cenci, it is not shown to any one ; — so as 
not to renew the memory of so horrible an event. 

This was the end of this fiimily : and until the 
time when tliis account is put together it has not 
been possible to find the Marquis Paolo Santa 
Croce ; but there is a rumour that he dwells m 
Brescia, a city of the Venetian states. 



END OF THE CENCI. 



HELLAS: 

^ £nrical Wvama. 



MANTIS EIM' ESeAJlN 'ArilNaN. 

CEdip. Colon. 



TO HIS EXCELLENCY, 

PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO, 

LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA, 
TEE DRAMA OF HELLAS 
IS INSCRIBED, 
AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP OP 

THE AUTHOR. 



Pisa, J^Tovember 1, 1821. 



PREFACE. 



The Poem of " Hellas," written at the sugges- 
tion of the events of the moment, is a mere impro- 
%'ise, and derives its interest (should it be found 
to possess any) solely from the intense sympathy 
which the Author feels with the cause he would 
celebrate. 

The subject, in its present state, is insusceptible 
of being treated othei-vrise than lyrically, and if I 
have called this poem a drama, from the circum- 
stance of its being composed in dialogue, the license 
is not greater than that which has been assumed 
by other poets, who have called their productions 
epics, only because they have been divided into 
twelve or twenty-four books. 

The Pers8e of ^Eschylus afforded me the first 
model of my conception, although the decision of 
the glorious contest now waging in Greece being 
yet suspended, forbids a catastrophe parallel to 
the return of Xerxes and the desolation of the 
Persians. I have, therefore, contented myself with 
exhibiting a series of lyric pictures, and with 
having wrought upon the curtain of futurity, which 
falls upon the unfinished scene, such figures of 
indistinct and visionary delineation as suggest the 
final triumph of the Greek cause as a portion of 
the cause of civilization and social improvement. 

The drama (if drama it must be called) is, how- 
ever, so inartificial that I doubt whether, if recited 
on the Thespian wagon to an Athenian village 
at the Dionysiaca, it would have obtained the prize 
of the goat. I shall bear with equanimity any 
punishment greater than the loss of such a reward 
which the Aristarchi of the hour may think fit to 
inflict. 



The only goat-song which I have yet attempted 
has, I confess, in spite of the unfavourable nature 
of the subject, received a greater and a more 
valuable portion of applause than I expected, or 
than it deserved. 

Common fame is the only authority which I 
can allege for the details which form the basis of the 
poem, and I must trespass upon the forgiveness of 
my readers for the display of newspaper erudition 
to which I have been reduced. Undoubtedly, 
until the conclusion of the war, it will be impossible 
to obtain an account of it sufliciently authentic 
for historical material ; but poets have their privilege, 
and it is unquestionable that actions of the most 
exalted courage have been performed by the Greeks 
— that they have gained more than one naval 
\'ictory, and that their defeat in Wallachia was 
signalized by circumstances of heroism more glo- 
rious even than victory. 

The apathy of the rulers of the civilized world, 
to the astonishing circumstance of the descendants 
of that nation to which they owe their civiUzation 
— rising as it were from the ashes of their ruin, is 
something perfectly inexplicable to a mere specta- 
tor of the shows of this mortal scene. We are all 
Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, 
our arts, have their root in Greece. But for Greece 
— Rome the instructer, the conqueror, or the me- 
tropolis of our ancestors, would have spread no illu- 
mination with her arms, and we might still have 
been savages and idolaters ; or, what is worse, 
might have arrived at such a stagnant and misera- 
ble state of social institutions as China and Japan 
possess. 

The human form and the human mind attained 
to a perfection in Greece which has impressed its 
image on those faultless productions, whose very 

189 



190 



HELLAS. 



fragments are the despair of modern art, and has 
propagated impulses which cannot cease, through 
a thousand channels of manifest or imperceptible 
operation, to enoble and delight mankind until the 
extinction of the race. 

The modern Greek is the descendant of those 
glorious beings whom the imagination almost re- 
fuses to figure to itself as belonging to our kind ; 
and he inherits much of their sensibility, and their 
rapidity of conception, their enthusiasm, and their 
courage. If in many instances he is degraded by 
moral and political slavery to the practice of the 
basest vices it engenders and that below the level 
of ordinary degradation; let us reflect that the 
corruption of the best produces the worst, and that 
habits which subsist only in relation to a peculiar 
state of social institutions may be expected to cease, 
as soon as that relation is dissolved. In fact, the 
Greeks, since the admirable novel of " Anastatius" 
could have been a faithful picture of their manners, 
have undergone most important changes ; the flower 
of their youth, returning to their country from the 
universities of Italy, Germany, and France, have 
communicated to their fellow-citizens the latest re- 
sults of that social perfection of which their ancestors 
were the original source. The university of Chios 
contained before the breaking out of the revolution, 
eight hundred students, and among them several 
Germans and Americans. The munificence and 
energy of many of the Greek princes and merchants, 
directed to the renovation of their country, with a 
spirit and a wisdom which has few examples, is 
above all praise. 



The English permit their own oppressors to 
act according to their natural sympathy with the 
Turkish tyrant, and to brand upon their name 
the indelible blot of an alhance with the ene- 
mies of domestic happiness, of Christianity, and 
civilization. 

Russia desires to possess, not to liberate Greece ; 
and is contented to see the Turks, its natural 
enemies, and the Greeks, its intended slaves, en- 
feeble each other, until one or both fall into its 
net. The wise and generous policy of England 
would have consisted in establishing the independ- 
ence of Greece, and in maintaining it both against 
Russia and the Turks ; — but when was the oppressor 
generous or just 1 

The Spanish Peninsula is already free. France 
is ti-anquil in the enjoyment of a partial exemption 
fi-om the abuses which its unnatural and feeble 
government are vainly attempting to revive. The 
seed of blood and misery has been sown in Italy, 
and a more vigorous race is arising to go forth to 
the harvest. The world waits only the news of a 
revolution of Germany, to see the tyrants who have 
pinnacled themselves on its supineness, precipitated 
into the ruin from which they shall never arise. 
Well do these destroyers of mankind know their 
enemy, when they impute the insuiTection in 
Greece to the same spirit before which they tremble 
throughout the rest of Europe ; and that enemy 
well knows the power and cunning of its oppo- 
nents, and watches the moment of their approach- 
ing weakness and inevitable division, to wrest the 
bloody sceptres from their grasp. 



DRAMATIS PERSON-E. 



Mahmud, 
Hassax, 



Daoob, 

Ahasuerus, a Jew. 



CnoRus of Greek Captive Women. 
Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants. 

Scene — Constantinople. 
Time— Sunset. 



Scene, a Terrace, on the Seraglio. 

Mahmud (sleeping,) an Indian slave sitting beside his 
Couch. 

CHORUS OF GREEK CAPTITE WOMEN". 

We strew these opiate flowers 

On thy restless pillow, — 
They were stript from Orient bowers, 
By the Indian billow. 
Be thy sleep 
Calm and deep, 
Like theirs who fell — not ours who weep ! 



Away, unlovely dreams ! 

Away, false shapes of sleep ! 
Be his, as Heaven seems. 
Clear, and bright, and deep ! 
Soft as love, and calm as death, 
Sweet as a summer night without a breath. 

CHORUS. 

Sleep, sleep ! oiu" song is laden 

With the soul of slumber ; 
It was sung by a Samian maiden, 

Whose lover was of the number 



HELLAS. 



191 



Who now keep 
That cahii sleep 
Whence none may wake where none shall weep. 

INDIAN. 

I touch thy temples pale ! 

I breathe my soul on thee ! 
And could my prayers avail, 
All my joy should be 
Dead, and I would live to weep, 
So thou might'st win one hour of quiet sleep. 

CHORUS. 

Breathe low, low, 
The spell of the mighty mistress now ! 
When Conscience lulls her sated snake, 
And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake. 
Breathe low, low. 
The words, which, like secret fire, shall flow 
Through the vems of the frozen earth — low, low ! 

SEMICHOKtJS I. 

Life may change, but it may fly not ; 
Hope may vanish, but it can die not ; 
Truth be veiled, but still it burneth ; 
Love repulsed, — but it returneth ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Yet were life a charnel, where 
Hope lay cofiined with Despair ; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
Love were lust — 

SEMICHORUS I. 

If Liberty 
Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight. 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear, 
Love its power to give and bear. 



In the great morning of the world, 
The spirit of God with might unfurled 
The flag of Freedom over Chaos, 

And all its banded anarchs fled, 
Like vultures frighted from Imaus, 

Before an earthquake's tread. — 
So from Time's tempestuous dawn 
Freedom's splendour burst and shone : — 
Thermopylae and Marathon 
Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted. 

The springing Fire. — The winged glory 
On Philippi half-alighted, 

Like an eagle on a promontory. 
Its unwearied wings could fan 
The quenchless ashes of Milan. 
From age to age, from man to man 

It lived ; and lit from land to land 

Florence, Albion, S^vitzerland. 
Then night fell ; and, as from night. 
Re-assuming fiery flight, 
From the West swift Freedom came. 

Against the course of Heaven and doom, 
A second sun arrayed in flame, 

To burn, to kindle, to illume. 
From far Atlantis its young beams 
Chased the shadows and the dreams. 
France, with all her sanguine streams, 



Hid, but quenched it not ; again 

Through clouds its shafts of glory rain 

From utmost Germany to Spain. 
As an eagle fed with morning 
Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, 
When she seeks her aerie hanging 

In the mountain-cedar's hair. 
And her brood expect the clanging 

Of her wings through the wild air, 
Sick with famine ; — Freedom, so 
To what of Greece remaineth now 
Returns ; her hoaiy ruins glow 
Like orient mountains lost in day ; 

Beneath the safety of her wings 
Her renovated nurslings play,. 

And in the naked lightnings 
Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. 
Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies, 
A Desert, or a Paradise ; 

Let the beautiful and the brave 

Share her glory, or a grave. 

SEMICHORirs I. 

With the gifts of gladness 
Greece did thy cradle strew ; 

SEMICHORUS II. 

With the tears of sadness 
Greece did thy shroud bedew ; 

SEMICHORUS I. 

With an orphan's aflTection 

She followed thy bier through time ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

And at thy resurrection 

Re-appeareth, like thou, sublime ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

If Heaven should resume thee, 

To Heaven shall her spirit ascend ; 

SEMICHORUS II. 

If Hell should entomb thee. 

To Hell shall her high hearts bend. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

If Annihilation — 

SEMICHORUS ir. 

Dust let her glories be ; 
And a name and a nation 

Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee ! 

INDIAN. 

His brow grows darker — breathe not — move not ! 
He starts — he shudders ; — ^ye that love not. 
With your panting loud and fast 
Have awakened him at last. 

MAHMUD (starting from his sleep.) 

Man the Seraglio-guard ! make fast the gate. 

What ! from a cannonade of three short hours 1 

'Tis false ! that breach towards the Bosphorus 

Cannot be practicable yet — Who stirs 1 

Stand to the match ; that when the foe prevails, 

One spark may mix in reconciling ruin 

The conqueror and the conquered ! Heave the tower 

Into the gap — wrench off the roof. 



193 



HELLAS. 



Enter Hassan. 

Ha! what! 
The truth of day Ughtens up my dream, 
And I am Mahmud still. 



Is sti-angely moved. 



HASSAX. 

Your Sublime Highness 



The times do cast strange shadows 
On those who watch and who must rule their course, 
Lest they, being first in peril as in gloiy. 
Be whelmed in the fierce ebb : — and these are of 
Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me [them. 
As thus from sleep into the troubled day ; 
It shakes me as the tempest shakes the sea, 
Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. 
Would that — no matter. Thou didst say thou 
A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle [knewest 

Of strange and secret and forgotten things. 
I bade thee summoia him : — 'tis said his tribe 
Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. 

HASSAN. 

The Jew of whom I spake is old, — so old 

He seems to have outlived a world's decay ; 

The hoary mountains and the wnrinkled ocean 

Seem younger still than he ; his hair and beard 

Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow ; 

His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries 

Ave like the fibres of a cloud instinct 

With light, and to the soul that quickens them 

Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift 

To the winter wand : — but from his eye looks forth 

A life of unconsumed thought, which pierces 

The present and the past, and the to-come. 

Some say that this is he whom the great prophet 

Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery, 

Mocked with the curse of immortality. 

Some feign that he is Enoch ; others dream 

He was pre-adamite, and has survived 

Cycles of generations and of ruin. 

The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence, 

And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, 

Deep contemplation, and unwearied study, 

In years outstretched beyond the date of man, 

May have attained to sovereignty and science 

Over those strong and secret things and thoughts 

Wliich others fear and know not. 



I would talk 



With this old Jew. 



Thy will is even now 
Made known to him, where he dwells in a sea-cavern 
'Mid the Dcmoucsi, less accessible 
Than thou or God ! He who would question him 
Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream 
Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless isles 
When the young moon is westering as now, 
And evening airs wander upon the wave ; 
And when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, 
Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow 
Of Ills gilt prow within the sapphire water, 



Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud, 

Ahasuerus ! and the caverns round 

Will answer, Ahasuerus ! If his prayer 

Be granted, a faint meteor will arise. 

Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind 

Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, 

And with the wind a storm of harmony 

Unutterably sweet, and pilot him 

Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus : 

Thence, at the hour and place and circumstance 

Fit for the matter of their conference, 

The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare, 

Win the desired communion — but that shout 

Bodes 

[Jl shout within. 



Evil, doubtless ; like all human sounds. 
Let me converse with spirits. 



That shout again. 



MAHMUD. 

This Jew whom thou hast summoned- 



Will be here — 



When the omnipotent hour, to which- are yoked 
He, I, and all things, shall compel — enough. 
Silence those mutineers — that drunken crew 
That crowd about the pilot in the storm. 
Ay ! strike the foremost shorter by the head ! 
They weary me, and I have need of rest. 
Kings are like stars — they rise and set; they have 
The worship of the world, but no repose. 

[Exeunt severally. 



Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 

From creation to decay. 
Like the bubbles on a river, 

Sparlding, bursting, borne away. 
But they are still immortal 
Who, through birth's orient portal. 
And death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro, 
Clothe their unceasing flight 
In the brief dust and light 
Gathered round their chariots as they go ; 
New shapes they still may weave. 
New Gods, new laws receive. 
Bright or dim are they, as the robes they last. 
On Death's bare ribs had cast. 

A power from the unknown God ; 
A Promethean conqueror came ; 
Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapour dim 
Which the orient planet animates with light; 
Hell, Sin, and Slavery came. 
Like bloodhounds mild and tame. 
Nor preyed until their lord had taken flight. 



HELLAS. 



193 



The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set : 
While blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon 
The cross leads generations on. 

Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 

From one whose dreams are pai-adise, 
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep, 
And day peers forth with her blank eyes ; 
So fleet, so faint, so fair. 
The Powers of earth and air 
Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem : 
Apollo, Pan, and Love, 
And even Olympian Jove 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them. 
Our hills, and seas, and streams, 
Dispeopled of their dreams, 
Their waters turned to blood, their dew to tears, 
Wailed for the golden years. 

E7Uer Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and Others. 



More gold ] our ancestors bought gold with victory, 
And shall I sell it for defeat ] 



The Janizars 



Clamour for pay. 



Go ! bid them pay themselves 
With Christian blood! Are there no Grecian 

virgins 
Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they may 

enjoy] 
No infidel children to impale on spears 1 
No hoary priests after that Patriarch 
Who bent the curse against his country's heart. 
Which clove his own at last ] Go ! bid them kill : 
Blood is the seed of gold. 



It has been sown, 
And yet the harvest to the sickle-men 
Is as a grain to each. 



Then take this signet, 
Unlock the seventh chamber, in which lie 
The treasures of victorious Solyman. 
An empire's spoils stored for a day of ruin. 
O spirit of my sires ! is it not come ] 
The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged and sleep ; 
But these, who spread their feast on the red earth. 
Hunger for gold, which fills not. — See them fed ; 
Then lead them to the rivers of fresh death. 

[Ezit Daood. 
Oh ! miserable dawn, after a night 
More glorious than the day which it usurped ! 
O, faith in God ] O, power on earth ! O, word 
Of the great Prophet, whose overshadowing wings 
Darkened the thrones and idols of the west. 
Now bright ! — ^For thy sake cursed be the hour, 
Even as a father by an evil child. 
When the orient moon of Islam rolled in triumph 
From Caucasus to white Ceraunia ! 
25 



Ruin above, and anarchy below ; 
Terror without, and treachery within ; 
The chalice of destruction full, and all 
Thirsting to drink ; and who among us dares 
To dash it from his lips 1 and where is Hope 1 



The lamp of our dominion still rides high ; 
One God is God — Mahomet is his Prophet. 
Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the Umits 
Of utmost Asia, irresistibly 
Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry, 
But not like them to weep their strength in tears; 
They have destroying lightning, and their step 
Wakes earthquakes, to consume and overwhelm, 
And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, 
Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen 
With horrent arms, and lofty ships, even now, 
Like vapours anchored to a mountain's edge. 
Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala 
The convoy of the ever-veering wind. 
Samos is drunk with blood ; — the Greek has paid 
Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. 
The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far 
When the fierce shout of Allah-illa-AUah ! 
Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind, 
Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock 
Of wild swans sti-uggling with the naked storm. 
So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day ! 
If night is mute, yet the returning sun. 
Kindles the voices of the morning birds ; 
Nor at thy bidding less exultingly 
Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, 
The anarchies of Afiica unleash 
Their tempest-winged cities of the sea, 
To speak in thunder to the rebel world. [storm. 
Like sulphureous clouds half-shattered by the 
They sweep the pale ^-Egean, vchile the Queen 
Of Ocean, bound upon her island throne. 
Far in the West, sits mourning that her sons, 
Who frown on Freedom, spare a smile for thee ; 
Russia still hovers, as an eagle might 
Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane 
Hang tangled in inextricable fight. 
To stoop upon the victor ; for she fears 
The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine : 
But recreant Austria loves thee as the Grave 
Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war, 
Fleshed with the chase, come up from Italy, 
And howl upon their limits ; for they see 
The panther Freedom fled to her old cover, 
Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood 
Crouch around. What Anarch wears a crown or 

mitre. 
Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold, 
Whose fiiends are not thy friends, whose foes thy 

foesl 
Our arsenals and our armories are full ; 
Our forts defy assaults ; ten thousand cannon 
Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour 
Their earth-convulsing wheels aflSight the city ; 
The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale 
The Christian merchant, and the yellow Jew 
Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. 
Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds, 
R 



194 



HELLAS. 



Over the hills of Anatolia, 

Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry 

Sweep ; — the far-flashing of their starry lances 

Reverberates the dying light of day. 

We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law ; 

But many-headed Insurrection stands 

Divided in itself, and soon must fall. 



Proud words, when deeds come short, are season- 
able; 
Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazoned 
Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud 
Which leads the rear of the departing day, 
Wan emblem of an empire Hiding now ! 
See how it trembles in the blood-red air, 
And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent, 
Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above, 
One star with insolent and victorious light 
Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams. 
Like arrows through a fainting antelope, 
Strikes its weak form to death. 



Even as that moon 



Renews itself- 



Shall we be not renewed ! 
Far other bark than ours were needed now 
To stem the ton-ent of descending time : 
The spirit that lifts the slave before its lord 
Stalks through the capitals of armed kings. 
And spreads his ensign in the wilderness ; 
Exults in chains; and when the rebel falls. 
Cries like the blood of Alicl fi-om the dust ; 
And the inheritors of earth, like beasts 
When earthquake is unleashed, with idiot fear 
Cower in their kingly dens — as I do now. 
What were Defeat, when Victory must appal 1 
Or Danger, when Security looks .pale 1 
How said the messenger — who from the fort 
Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle 
Of Bucharest ?— that— 

HASSAJf. 

Ibrahim's cimeter 
Drew with its gleam swift \'ictory from Heaven. 
To burn before him in the night of battle — 
A light and a destruction. 



Was ours ! but how '? — 



Ay ! the day 



The light Wallachians, 
The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies. 
Fled from the glance of our artillery 
Almost before the thunderstone alit ; 
One half the Grecian army made a bridge 
Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead; 
The other — 

MAHMUD. 

Speak — tremble not — 



Islanded 
By victor myriads, formed in hollow square 
With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung 
The deluge of our foaming cavalry ; [back 

Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our hues. 
Our baffled army trembled like one man 
Before a host, and gave them space ; but soon, 
From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, 
Kneading them down with fire and iron rain. 
Yet none approached ; till like a field of com 
Under the hook of the swart sickle-man. 
The bands, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead, 
Grew weak and few. Then said the Pacha, " Slaves, 
Render yourselves — they have abandoned you — 
What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid 1 
We grant your lives."' — *' Grant that which is thine 

own," 
Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died ! 
Another — " God, and man, and hope abandon me ; 
But I to them and to myself remain 
Constant ;" he bowed his head, and his heart burst. 
A third exclaimed, " There is a refuge, tyrant. 
Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not 

harm. 
Shouldst thou pursue ; there we shall meet again." 
Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm. 
The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment 
Among the slain — dead earth upon the earth ! 
So these survivors, each by different ways, 
Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable, 
Met in triumphant death ; and when our army 
Closed in, wliile yet wonder, and awe, and shame 
Held back the base hyenas of the battle 
That feed upon the dead and fly the living. 
One rose out of the chaos of the slain ; 
And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit 
Of the old saviours of the land we rule 
Had lifted in its anger, wandering by ; 
Or if there burned within the dying man 
Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith 
Creating what it feigned ; — I cannot tell ; 
But he cried, " Phantoms of the free, we come ! 
Armies of the Eternal, ye who strilce 
To dust the citadels of sanguine kings. 
And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts. 
And thaw their fi-ost-work diadems like dew ; — 
O ye who float around their clime, and weave 
The garment of the glory which it wears ; 
Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped. 
Lies sepulchred in monumental thought ; — 
Progenitors of all that yet is great. 
Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept 
In your high ministrations, us, your sons — 
Us first, and the more glorious yet to come ! 
And ye weak conquerors ! giants who look pale 
When the crushed worm rebels beneath your 

tread — 
The vultures, and the dogs, your pensioners tame. 
Are overgorged ; but, Uke oppressors, still 
They crave the relic of Destruction's feast. 
The exhalations and the thirsty winds 
Are sick with blood ; the dew is foul with death — 
Heaven's fight is quenched in slaughter: Thus 

where'er 



HELLAS. 



195 



Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets, 
The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast 
Of these dead limbs, upon your streams and moun- 
tains, 
L^pon your fields, your gardens, and your housetops, 
W^here'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly. 
Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down 
With poisoned light — Famine, and Pestilence, 
And Panic, shall wage war upon our side ! 
Nature from all her boundaries is moved 
Against ye : Time has found ye light as foam. 
The earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake 
Their empire o'er the unborn world of men 
On this one cast — but ere the die be thrown, 
The renovated genius of our race. 
Proud umpire of the impious game, descends 
A seraph-winged Victory, bestriding 
The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, 
Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom. 
And you to oblivion !" — More he would have said. 
But— 

MAHMUD. 

Died — as thou shouldst ere thy lips had painted 
Their ruin in the hues of our success. 
A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue ! 
Your heart is Greek, Hassan. 

HASSAX. 

It may be so : 
A spirit not my own vn-enched me within, 
And I have spoken v/ords I fear and hate ; 
Yet would I die for — 

MAHMUD. 

Live ! O live ! outlive 
Me and this sinking empire : — but the fleet — 



HASSAN. 



Alas! 



The fleet which, like a flock of clouds 
Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner. 
Our \\dnged castles from their merchant ships I 
Our myriads before their weak pirate bands ! 
Our arms before their chains ! Our years of empire 
Before their centuries of servile fear ! 
Death is awake ! Repulsed on the waters. 
They own no more the thunder-bearing banner 
Of Mahmud ; but like hounds of a base breed. 
Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their 
master. 



Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae, saw 

The wreck — 



The caves of the Icarian isles 
Hold each to the other in loud mockery. 
And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes 
First of the sea-convulsing fight — and then — 
Thou darest to speak — senseless are the mountains. 
Interpret thou their voice ! 



My presence bore 



A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet 
Bore down at daybreak from the North, and hung 
As multitudinous on the ocean line 
As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. 
Our squadron convoying ten thousand men, 
Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle 
Was kindled. — 

First through the hail of our artillery 
The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail 
Dashed : — ship to ship, cannon to camion, man 
To man, were grappled in the embrace of war, 
Inextricable but by death or victory. 
The tempest of the ragmg fight convulsed 
To its ci-ystallinc depths that stainless sea, 
And shook heaven's roof of golden morning clouds 
Poised on a hundred azure mountain-isles. 
In the brief trances of the artilleiy. 
One cry from the destroyed and the destroyer 
Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapt 
The unforeseen event, till the north wind 
Spi-ung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil 
Of battle smoke — then victory — victory ! 
For, as we thought, three frigates fi-om Algiers 
Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon 
The abhorred cross glimmered behind, before, 
Among, around us ; and that fatal sign 
Dried with its beams the strength of Moslem hearts, 
■ As the sun drinks the dew. — What more 1 We fled ! 
Our noonday path over the sanguine foam 
Was beaconed, and the glare sti'uck the sun pale, 
By our consuming transports : the fierce light 
Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red. 
And every countenance blank. Some ships lay 

feeding 
The ravening fire even to the water's level : 
Some were blown up ; some, settling heavily. 
Sunk ; and the shrieks of our companions died 
Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far, 
Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perished ! 
We met the vultures legioned in the air, 
Stemming the toAent of the tainted wind: 
The}', screaming from their cloudy mountain peaks. 
Stooped through the sulphureous battle-smoke, and 

perched 
Each on the weltering carcass that we loved, 
Like its ill angel or its damned soul. 
Rithng upon the bosom of the sea, 
We saw the dog-fish hastening to their feast. 
Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, 
And ravening famine left his ocean-cave 
To dwell with war, with us, and with despair. 
We met night three hours to the west of Patmos, 
As with night, tempest — 

MAHMUD, 

Cease ! 

Enter a MessevgeT. 
MESSENGER. 

Your Sublime Highness, 
That Christian hound, the Muscovite ambassador, 
Has left the city. If the rebel fleet 
Had anchored in the port, had victory 
Crowned the Greek legions in the Hippodrome, 
Panic were tamer. — Obedience and Mutiny, 
Like giants in contention planet-struck, 



196 



HELLAS. 



Stand gazing on each other. — There is peace 
In Stamboul. — ■ 

MAHMUD. 

Is the grave not calmer still ? 
Its ruins shall be mine. 



Fear not the Russian ; 
The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay 
Against the hunter. — Cunning, base, and cruel, 
He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, 
And must be paid for his reserve in blood. 
After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian 
That which thou canst not keep, his deserved 

portion 
Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and 

fields, 
Rivers and seas, like that which we may win. 
But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves ! 

Enter Second Messenger. 

SECOND MESSENGER. 

Nauplia, Tripolizza, Mothon, Athens, 

Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, 

Corinth and Thebes, are carried by assault ; 

And every Islamite who made his dogs 

Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves, 

Passed at the edge of the sword : the lust of blood, 

Which made our wamors drank, is quenched in 

death ; 
But like a fiery plague breaks out anew 
In deeds which make the Christian cause look pale 
In its own light. The garrison of Patras 
Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope 
But from the Briton ; at once slave and tyrant. 
His wishes still are weaker than his fears ; 
Or he would sell what faith may yet remain 
From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway ; 
And if you buy him not, your treasury 
Is empty even of promises — his own coin. 
The freeman of a western poet chief 
Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels, 
And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont ; 
The aged Ali sits in Yanina, 
A crownless metaphor of empire ; 
His name, that shadow of his withered might, 
Holds our besieging army like a spell 
In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny : 
He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth 
Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors 
The ruins of the city where he reigned 
Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has reaped 
The costly harvest his own blood matured. 
Not the sower, Ali — who has bought a truce 
From Ypsilanti, with ten camel-loads 
Of Indian gold. 

Enter a Third Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

What more 1 

THIRD MESSENGER. 

The Christian tribes 
Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness 
Are in revolt ; — ^Damascus, Hems, Aleppo, 



Tremble ; — the Arab menaces Medina ; 
The Ethiop has intrenched himself in Sennaar, 
And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employed, 
Who denies homage, claims investiture 
As price of tardy aid. Persia demands 
The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians 
Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, 
Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins 
Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake spasm, 
Shake in the general fever. Through the city, 
Like birds before a storm, the Santons shriek. 
And prophesyings horrible and new 
Are heard among the crowd ; that sea of men 
Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. 
A Dervise, learned in the Koran, preaches 
That it is written how the sins of Islam 
Must raise up a destroyer even now. 
The Greeks expect a Saviour from the west ; 
Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, 
But in the omnipresence of that spirit 
In which all live and are. Ominous signs 
Are blazoned broadly on the noonday sky ; 
One saw a red cross stamped upon the sun ; 
It has rained blood ; and monstrous births declare 
The secret wTath of Nature and her Lord. 
The army encamped upon the Cydaris 
Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, 
And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, — ■ 
The shadows doubtless of the unborn time. 
Cast on the mirror of the night While yet 
The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm 
Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. 
At the third watch the spirit of the plague 
Was heard abroad flapping among the tents : 
Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. 
The last news from the camp is, that a thousand 
Have sickened, and — 

Enter a Fourth Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow 
Of some untimely rumour, speak ! 

FOURTH MESSENGER. 

One comes 
Fainting with toil, covered with foam and blood ; 
He stood, he says, upon Clelonit's 
Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan 
Under the Briton's frown, and all their waters 
Then trembling in the splendour of the moon ; 
When, as the wandering clouds unveiled or hid 
Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets 
Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer, 
Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams. 
And smoke which strangled every infant wmd 
That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. 
At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco 
Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds 
Over the sea-horizon, blotting out 
All objects — save that in the faint moon-glimpse 
He saw, or dreamed he saw the Turkish admiral 
And two, the loftiest, of our ships of war. 
With the bright image of that Queen of Heaven, 
Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed ; 
And the abhorred cross — • 



1 ■ - ■ ■ ^1 

HELLAS. 197 


Enter an Attendant. 


SEMICHORUS II. 


ATTENDANT. 


Go 


Your Sublime Highness, 


Where Thermse and Asopus swallowed 


The Jew, who — 


Persia, as the sand does foam. 


MAHJIUD. 


Deluge upon deluge followed. 


Could not come more seasonably; 


Discord, Macedon, and Rome : 


Bid him attend. I'll hear no more ! too long 


And lastly, thou ! 


We gaze on danger through the mist of fear. 


SEMICHORUS I. 


And multiply upon our shattered hopes 




The images of ruin. Come what will ! 


Temples and towers, 


To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps 


Citadels and marts, and they 


Set in our path to light us to the edge, [aught 


Who live and die there, have been ours, 


Through rough and smooth ; nor can we suflTer 


And may be thine, and must decay ; 


Wliich he inflicts not in whose hand we are. 


But Greece and her foundations are 


[^Exeunt. 


Built below the tide of war. 


SEMICHORUS r. 

Would I were the winged cloud 


Based on the crystalline sea 
Of thought and its eternity; 

fler citizens, imperial spirits, 
Rule the present from the past, 

On all this world of men inherits 


Of a tempest swift and loud ! 
I would scorn 


The smile of morn 


Their seal is set 


And the wave where the moonrise is bom ! 




I would leave 






SEMICHORUS II. 


The spirits of eve 




A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave 


Hear ye the blast. 


From other threads tlian mine ! 


Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls 


Bask in the blue noon divine 


From niin her Titanian walls ] 


Who would, not L 


Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones 




Of Slavery ? Argos, Corinth, Crete, 


SEMICHOUUS II. 


Hear, and from their mountain thrones 


Whither to fly ! 


The demons and the nymphs repeat 


SEMICHOETJS I. 


The harmony. 


Where the rocks that girt th' ^Egean 


SEMICHORUS I. 


Echo to the battle psean 
Of the free— 


I hear ! I hear ! 


I would flee 


SEMICHORUS II. 


A tempestuous herald of victory ! 
My golden rain 
For the Grecian slain 


T\u world's eyeless charioteer, 
Destiny, is hurrying by ! 


Should mingle in tears with the bloody main ; 
And my solemn thunder-knell 
Should ring to the world the passing-bell 
Of tyranny I 


What faith is crushed, what empire bleeds 


Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds 1 


What eagle-winged victory sits 


At her right hand 1 what shadow flits 


Before 1 what splendour rolls behind 1 


SEMICHORUS II. 


Ruin and Renovation ciy, 


Ah king ! wilt thou chain 


Who but we ? 


The rack and the rain f 




Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurricane 1 


SEMICHORUS I. 


The storms are free, 


I hear ! I hear ! 


But we — 


The hiss as of a rushing wind, 


CHORUS. 


The roar as of an ocean foaming, 
The thunder as of earthquake coining. 


Slaverj' ! thou frost of the world's prime, 


I hear ! I hear ! 


Killing its flowers and lea\ing its thorns bare ! 


The crash as of an empire falling. 


Thy touch has stamped these Umbs with crime. 


The shrieks as of a people calling 


These brows thy branding garland bear ; 


Mercy ! Mercy ! — How they thrill ! 


But the free heart, the impassive soul. 


Then a shout of " Kill ! kill ! kill ! 


Scorn thy conti'ol ! 


And then a small still voice, thus— 


SEMICHORUS I. 




Let there be light ! said Liberty ; 


SEMICHORUS II. 


And hke sunrise from the sea. 


For 


Athens arose ! — Around her born. 


Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind. 


Shone hke mountains in the mom. 


The foul cubs like their parents are. 


Glorious states ; — and are they now 


Their den is in their guilty mind, 


Ashes, wrecks, oblivion ] 


And Conscience feeds them with despair. 
r2 



198 



HELLAS. 



SEMicHonrs i. 
In sacred Athens, near the fane 

Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood ; 
Serve not the unknown God in vain, 
But pay that broken shrine again 

Love for hate, and tears for blood. 

Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou art a man, thou sayest, even as we— 



AHASUERUS. 



No more ! 



MAHMUD. 

But raised above thy fellow-men 
By thought, as I by power. 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou sayest so. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou art an adept in the difficult lore 

Of Greek and Frank philosophy ; thou numberest 

The flowers, and thou measurcst the stars; 

Thou severest element from element ; 

Thy spirit is present in the past, and sees 

The birth of this old world thro\igh all its cycles 

Of desolation and of loveliness ; 

And when man was not, and how man became 

Tiie monarch and the slave of this low sphere. 

And all its narrow circles — it is much. 

I honour theo, and would be what thou art 

Were I not what I am ; but the luiborn hour, 

Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms. 

Who shall unveil "? Nor thou, nor I, nor any 

Mighty or wise. I apprehended not 

What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive 

That thou art no interpreter of dreams ; 

Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, 

Can make the future present — let it come I 

Moreover thou disdainest us and ours I 

Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. 

AHASUERUS. 

Disdain thee ? — not the worm beneath my feet ! 
The Fathomless has care for meaner things 
Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for 

those 
X^^ho would be what they may not, or would seem 
That which they are not. Sultan ! talk no more 
Of thee and me, the future and tJie past; 
But look on that which cannot change — the One 
The unborn, and the undying. Earth and ocean, 
Space, and the isles of life or light that gem 
The sapphire floods of interstellar air. 
This lirmament jiavilioncd upon chaos, 
With all its cressets of immortal fire, 
Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably 
Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them 
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds — this whole 
Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts and 

flowers, 
W'ith all the- silent or tempestuous workings 
By which they have been, are, or cease to be. 
Is but a vision ; — all that it inherits 
Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles, and dreams ; 



Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less 
The future and the past are idle shadows 
Of thought's eternal flight — ^they have no being ; 
Nought is but that it feels itself to be. 

MAHMUD. 

What meanest thou ? thy words stream like a tempest 
Of dazzling mist within my brain — they shake 
The earth on which I stand, and hang' like night 
On Heaven above me. What can they avail 1 
They cast on all things, surest, brightest, best, 
Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. 

AHASUERUS. 

Mistake me not ! All is contained in each, 

Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup 

Is that which has been or will he, to that 

Which is — ^the absent to the present. Thought 

Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, 

Reason, Imagination, cannot die ; 

They are what that which they regard appears. 

The stufl" whence mutability can weave 

All that it hath dominion o'er, — worlds, worms, 

Enjpires, and superstitions. What has thought 

To do with time, or place, or circumstance 1 

Wouldst thou behold the future 1 — ask and haye! 

Knock and it shall be opened — look, and lo I 

The coming age is shadowed on the past, 

As on a glass. 

MAHMUD. 

Wild, wilder thoughts convulse 
My spirit — Did not Mahomet the Second 
Win Stamboul ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit 
Tlie written fortunes of thy house and faith. 
Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to tell 
How what was born in blood must die. 



Have power on me ! I see- 



Tliy words 



A far whisper — 
Terrible silence. 



AHASUERUS. 

What hearest thoul 



AHASUERUS. 

Wliat succeeds 1 



MAHMUD. 

The sotmd 
As of the assault of an imperial city, 
The liiss of inextinguishable fire. 
The roar of giant cannon ; — the earthquaking 
Fall of bastions and precipitous towers. 
The shock of crags shot from strange engin'ry, 
The clash of wheels, and clang of armed hoofs. 
And crash of brazen mail, as of the wreck 
Of adamantine mountains — the mad blast 
Of ti-umpets. and the neigh of raging steeds. 
And shrieks of women whose thrill jars the blood. 
And one sweet laugh, most horrible to hear. 
As of a joyous infant waked, and playing 
With its dead mother's breast : and now more loud 



HELLAS. 



199 



The mingled battle-cry — ha ! hear I not 
'Ev Tovnp vUri. Allah-illah- Allah ! 

AHASUEEUS. 

The sulphureous mist is raised — thou seest — 

MAHMUD. 

A chasm, 
As of two mountains, in the wall of Stamboul ; 
And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, 
Like giants on the ruins of a world, 
Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust 
Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one 
Of regal port has cast himself beneath 
The stream of war. Another proudly clad 
In golden arms, spurs a Tartarian barb 
Into the gap, and with his iron mace 
Directs the torrent of that tide of men, 
And seems — he is — Mahomet ! 

AHASUEIirS. 

What thou see'st 
Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream ; 
A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that 
Thou call'st reahty. Thou maj^st behold 
How cities, on which empire sleeps enthroned, 
Bow their towered crests to mutability. 
Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou boldest. 
Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of power 
Ebbs to its depths. — Inheritor of glory, 
Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and nourished 
With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal throes 
Of that whose birth was but the same. The Past 
Now stands before thee like an Incarnation 
Of the To-come ; yet wouldst thou commune with 
That portion of thyself which was ere thou 
Didst start for this brief race whose crown is death ; 
Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent passion 
Which called it from the uncreated deep. 
Yon cloud of war with its tempestuous phantoms 
Of raging death ; and draw with mighty will 
The imperial shade hither. 

[£j!i Ahasuerus. 



Approach ! 

PHAN^TOM- 

I come 
Thence whither thou must go ! The grave is fitter 
To take the H\ing, than give up the dead ; 
Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. 
The hea\'y fragments of the power which fell 
When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds. 
Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices 
Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose, 
Wailing for glory never to return. — 
A later Empire nods in its decay; 
The autumn of a greener faith is come. 
And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip 
The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built 
Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. 
The storm is in its branches, and the frost 
Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects 
Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, 
Ruin on ruin : thou art slow, my son ; 



The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep 

A throne for thee, round which thine empire Ues 

Boundless and mute ; and for thy subjects thou, 

Like us, shall rule the ghosts of murdered life. 

The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now — 

Mutinous passions and conflicting fears, 

And hopes that sate themselves on dust and die ! 

Stript of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. 

Islam must fall, but we will reign together 

Over its ruins in the world of death : — • 

And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed 

Unfold itself even in the shape of that 

Which gathers birth in its decay. Wo ! wo ! 

To the weak people tangled in the grasp 

Of its last spasms. 

MAHMUD. 

Spirit wo to all ! 
Wo to the wronged and the avenger ! Wo 
To the destroyer, wo to the destroyed ! 
Wo to the dupe, and wo to the deceiver ! 
Wo to the oppressed, and wo to the oppressor ! 
Wo both to those that sutler and inflict ; 
Those who are bom, and those who die ! But say 
Imperial shadow of the thing I am. 
When, how, by whom. Destruction must accomplish 
Her consummation 1 

PHANTOM. 

Ask the cold pale Hour, 
Rich in reversion of impending death, 
When he shall fall upon those ripe gray hairs 
Sit care, and sorrow, and infirmity — 
The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed 

with years, 
Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart 
Over the heads of men, under which burden 
They bow themselves unto the grave : fond vsretch ! 
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years 
To come, and how in hours of youth renewed 
He will renew lost joys, and 

VO-ICE WITHOUT. 

Victory ! victory ! 
[r/ie Phantom vanishes. 
MAHMUD. 

What sound of the importunate earth has broken 
My mighty trance I 

VOICE ■WITHOUT. 

Victory I victory ! 



Weak lightning before darkness ! poor faint smile 
Of dying Islam ! Voice which art the response 
Of hollow weakness ! Do I wake and live 1 
Were there such things'? or may the unquiet brain, 
Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old Jew, 
Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear 1 
It matters not ! — for nought we see or dream, 
Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth 
More than it gives or teaches. Come what may. 
The 'future must become the past, and I 
As they were, to wliom once this present hour, 
This gloomy crag of time to which I cUng, 
Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and joy 



200 



HELLAS. 



Never to be attained I must rebuke 

This drunkenness of triumph ere it die, 
And dying, bring despair. — Victoi^ ! — poor slaves ! 

[Exit Mahmud. 

VOICE "WITHOUT. 

Shout in the jubilee of death ? The Greeks 

Are as a brood of Lions in the net, 

Round which the kingly hunters of the earth 

Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily food 

Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of death, 

From Thule to the girdle of the world. 

Come, feast ! the board groans with the flesh of men — 

The cup is foaming with a nation's blood, 

Famine and Tliirst await : eat, drink and die ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, 
Salutes the risen sun, pursues the flying day ! 

I saw her ghastly as a tyrant's dream, 
Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, [lay 
Beneath which earth and all her realms pavilioned 
In visions of the dawning undelight. 

Who shall impede her flight 1 
Who rob her of her prey ] 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory ! victory ! Russia's famished eagles 
Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. 
Impale the remnant of the Greeks ! despoil ! 
Violate ! make their flesh cheaper than dust ! 

SEMICHORUS 11. 

Thou voice which art 

The herald of the ill in splendour hid ! 
Thou echo of the hollow heart 

Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode 

When desolation flashes o'er a world destroyed. 
Oh bear me to those isles of jagged cloud 

Which floats like mountains on the earthquakes, 
'mid 
The momentary oceans of the lightning; 

Or to some toppling promontory proud 

Of solid tempest, whose black pyramid, 
Riven, overhangs the founts intensely brightening 

Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire 

Before their waves expire. 
When heaven and earth are light, and only light 
In the tliunder-night ! 

VOICE -WITHOUT. 

Victory ! victory ! Austria, Russia, England, 
And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France, 
Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs 

speak. 
Ho, there ! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes ! 
These chains are light, fitter for slaves and prisoners 
Than Greeks. Kill ! plunder ! burn ! let none re- 
main. 

SEMICHOnUS I. 

Alas for Liberty ! 
If numbers, wealth, or unfulfilling years, 
Or fate can quell the free ; 

Alas for Virtue ! when 
Torments, or contumely, or the sneers 

Of erring-judging men 



Can break the heart where it abides. 
Alas ! if Love, whose smile makes this obscure 
world splendid. 
Can change, with its false times and tides, 
Like hope and terror — 
Alas for Love ! 
And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbefriended. 
If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mirror 
Before the dazzled eye of Error. 
Alas for thee ! Image of the Above. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn, 

Led the ten thousand from the limits of the mom 

Through many a hostile Anarchy ! 
At length they wept aloud and cried, " The sea ! 
the sea!" 
Through exile, persecution, and despair, 

Rome was, and young Atlantis shall become 
The wonder or the terror of the tomb 
Of all whose step wakes power lulled in her savage 
lair: 
But Greece was as a hermit child, 
Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were built 
To woman's growth, by dreams so mild 
She knew not pain nor guilt ; 
And now, O Victory, blush ! and Empire, tremble, 
When ye desert the free ! 
If Greece must be 
A VFi-eck, yet shall its fragments reassemble, 
And build themselves again impregnably 

In a diviner clime. 
To Amphionic music, on some Cape sublime. 
Which frowns above the idle foam of Time. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made ; 

Let the free possess the paradise they claim ; 
Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weighed 

With our ruin, oar resistance, and our nam* I 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, 
Our survivors be the shadows of their pride, 

Our adversity a dream to pass away — 
Their dishonour a remembrance to abide ! 

VOICE "WITHOUT. 

Victory ! Victory ! Tire bought Briton sends 

The keys of ocean to the Islamite. 

Now shall the blazon of the cross be veiled. 

And British skill directing Othman might. 

Thunder-strike rebel victory. O keep holy 

This jubilee of unrevenged blood ! 

Kill ! crush ! despoil ! Let not a Greek escape ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Darkness has dawned in the East 

On the Aoon of time : 
The death-birds descend to their feast. 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand. 
And follow Love's folding star ! 

To the Evening land ! 



NOTES ON HELLAS. 



201 



SEMICHOatJS II. 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn 
With the sunset's fire : 
The weak day is dead, 

But the night is not honi ; 
And, hke loveliness panting with wild desire, 
While it trembles with fear and delight, 
Hesperus flies from awakening night. 
And pants in its beauty and speed with light 
Fast-flashing, soft, and bright. 
Thou beacon of love ! thou lamp of the free ! 

Guide us far, far away. 
To climes where now, veiled by the ardour of day. 
Thou art hidden 
From waves on which weary noon 
Faints in her summer swoon. 
Between kingless continents, sinless as Eden, 
Around mountains and islands inviolably 
Prankt on the sapphire sea. 

SE5IICH0RUS I. 

Through the sunset of hope, 
Like the shapes of a dream. 
What Paradise islands of glory gleam 

Beneath Heaven's cope. 
Their shadows more clear float by — 
The sounds of their oceans, the light of their sky, 
The music and fragrance their solitudes breathe. 
Burst like morning on dreams, or like Heaven on 
death. 
Through the walls of our prison ; 
And Greece, which was dead, is arisen ! 

CHORUS. 

The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return, 
The earth doth like a snake renew 
Her whiter weeds outworn : 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam 
Like wrecks of a dissolving di'eam. 



A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves screner far ; 
A new Pencus rolls its fountains 

Against the morning-star. 
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 

A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 

Fraught with a later prize ; 
Another Orpheus sings again. 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for liis native shore. 

write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be ! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon the free : 

Although a subtler sphinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 

Another Athens shall arise, 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies. 

The splendour of its prime ; 
And leave, if nought so bright may live, 
All earth can take or heaven can give. 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose. 
Than many unsubdued: 

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers. 

But votive tears, and symbol flowers. 

O cease ! must hate and death return 1 
Cease ! must men kill and die 1 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weaiy of the past, 
O might it die or rest at last ! 



NOTES. 



p. 191, col. 1, 1. 44. 
The Quenchless ashes of Milan. 

MiLA?T was the centre of the resistance of the 
Lombard league against the Austrian tyrant. Fre- 
derick Barbarossa burnt the city to the ground, but 
liberty lived in its ashes, and it rose like an exha- 
lation from its ruin. — See Sismoxbi's '^ Histoires 
des Repuhliques Italiennes" a book which has 
done much towards awakening the Italians to an 
imitation of their great ancestors. 

P. 192, col. 2,1. 28. 

CHORUS. 

The popular notions of Christianity are repre- 
sented in this chorus as true in their relation to the 
worship they superseded, and that which in all 
probability they will supersede, without consider- 
ing their merits in a relation more universal. The 
first stanza contrasts the immortality of the living 
26 



and thinking beings which inhabit the planets, and, 
to use a common and inadequate phrase, clothe 
themselves in matter, with the transience of the 
noblest manifestations of the external world. 

The concluding verses indicate a progressive 
state of more or less exalted existence, according 
to the degree of perfection which every distinct in- 
telligence may have attained. Let it not be sup- 
posed that I mean to dogmatize upon a subject con- 
cerning whicli all men ere equally ignorant, or that 
I think the Gordian knot of the origin of evil can 
be disentangled by that or by any similar asser- 
tions. The received Iwpothcsis of a Being re- 
sembling men in the moral attributes of his nature, 
having called us out of non-existence, and after 
inflicting on us the misery of the commission of 
error, should superadd that of the punishment and 
the privations consequent upon it, still would re- 
main inexplicable and incredible. That there is a 



202 



NOTES ON HELLAS. 



true solution of the riddle, and that in our present 
state the solution is unattainable by us, are propo- 
sitions which may be regarded as equally certain ; 
meanwhile, as it is the province of the poet to at- 
tach himself to those ideas which exalt and ennoble 
humanity, let him be permitted to have conjectured 
the condition of that futurity towards which we 
are all impelled by an inextinguishable thirst for im- 
mortality. Until better arguments can be produced 
than sophisms which disgrace the cause, this desire 
itself must remain the strongest and the only pre- 
sumption that eternity is the inheritance of every 
thinking being. 

P. 193, col. 1, 1. 27. 
JVo hoary priests after that Patriarch. 

The Greek Patriarch, after having been com- 
pelled to fulminate an anathema against the insur- 
gents, was put to death by the Turks. 

Fortunately the Greeks have been taught that 
they cannot buy security by degradation, and the 
Turks, though equally cruel, are less cunning than 
the smooth-faced tyrants of Europe. 

As to the anathema, his Holiness might as well 
have thrown his mitre at Mount Athos for any 
effect that it produced. The chiefs of the Greeks 
are almost all men of comprehension and enlight- 
ened views on religion and politics. 

P. 196, col. 1,1. 32. 
The freeman of a western poet chief. 
A Greek who had been Lord Byron's servant 
commands the insvu-gents in Attica. This Greek, 
Lord Byron informs me, though a poet and an en- 
thusiastic patriot, gave him rather the idea of a 
timid and unenterprising person. It appears that 
circumstances make men what the}' are, and that 
we all contain the germ of a degree of degradation 
or greatness, whose connexion with our character 
is determined by events. 

P. 196, col. 2, 1. 18. 
The Oreeks expect a Saviour from the west. 
It is reported that this Messiah had arrived at a 
seaport near Lacedemon in an American brig. The 
association of names and ideas is irresistibly ludi- 
crous, but the prevalence of such a rumour strongly 
marks the state of popular enthusiasm in Greece. 

P. 198, col. 2, 1. 39. 

The sound 
Ms of the assault of an imperial city. 

For the vision of Mahmud of the taking of Con- 
stantinople in 1445, see Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 223. 

The manner of the invocation of the spirit of 
Mahomet the Second will be censured as over- 
drawn. I could easily have made the Jew a regular 
conjuror, and the Phantom an ordinary ghost. I 
have preferred to represent the Jew as disclaiming 
all pretension, or even beUef, in supernatural 



agency, and as tempting Mahmud to that state of 
mind in which ideas may be supposed to assume 
the force of sensation, through the confusion of 
thought, with the objects of thought, and excess of 
passion animating the creations of the imagination. 
It is a sort of natural magic, susceptible of being 
exercised in a degTce by any one who should have 
made himself master of the secret associations for 
another's thoughts. 

P. 201, col. 1,1. 30. 

CHORUS. 

The final chorus is indistinct and obscure as the 
event of the living drama whose arrival it foretells. 

Prophecies of wars, and rumours of wars, &c. 
may safely be made by poet or prophet in any 
age ; but to anticipate, however darkly, a period of 
regeneration and happiness, is a more hazardous 
exercise of the faculty which bards possess or feign. 
It will remind the reader, " magno nee proximus 
intervallo" of Isaiah and Virgil, whose ardent spirits, 
overleaping the actual reign of evil which we en- 
dure and bewail, already saw the possible and per- 
haps approaching, state of society in which the 
" lion shall lie down with the lamb," and " omnis 
feret omnia tellus." Let these great names be 
my authority and excuse. 

P. 201, col. 2, 1. 25. 

Saturn and Love their long repose. 

Saturn and Love were among the deities of a 
real or imaginary .state of innocence and happiness. 
.4// tho.se who fell, or the Gods of Greece, Asia, 
and Egypt ; the One, ivho rose, or Jesus Christ, at 
whose appearance the idols of the Pagan world 
were amerced of their worship ; and the many un- 
subdued or the monstrous objects of the idolatry 
of China, India, and the Antarxtic islands, and the 
native tribes of America, certainly have reigned 
over the understandings of men in conjunction or 
in succession, during periods in which nil we know 
of evil has been in a state of portentous, and, until 
the revival of learning and the arts, perpetually in- 
creasing, activity. The Grecian Gods seem indeed 
to have been personally more innocent, although 
it cannot be said that, as far as temperance and 
chastity are concerned, they gave so edifying an 
example as their successor. The sublime human 
character of Jesus Christ was deformed by an im- 
puted identification with a power, who tempted, 
betrayed, and punished the innocent beings who 
were called into existence by his sole will ; and 
for the period of a thousand years, the spirit of this 
most just, wise, and benevolent of men, has been 
propitiated with myriads of hecatombs of those 
who approached the nearest to his innocence and 
wisdom, sacrificed under every aggravation of 
atrocity and variety of torture. The horrors of 
the Mexican, the Peruvian, and the Indian super- 
stitions are well known. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON HELLAS. 



203 



NOTE ON HELLAS. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



The south of Europe was in a state of great 
political excitement at the beginning of the year 
1821. The Spanish Revolution had been a signal 
to Italy — secret societies were formed — and when 
Naples rose to declare the Constitution, the call 
was responded to from Brundusium to the foot of 
the Alps. To crush these attempts to obtain liberty, 
early in 1821, the Austrians poured their armies 
into the peninsula : at first their coming rather 
seemed to add energy and resolution to a people 
long enslaved. The Piedmontese asserted their 
freedom ; Genoa threw off the yoke of the King 
of Sardinia ; and, as if in playful imitation, the 
people of the little state of Massa ■ and Carrara 
gave the conge to their sovereign and set up a 
republic. 

Tuscany alone was perfectly tranquil. It was 
said, that the Austrian minister presented a list 
of sixty Cai-bonari to the grand-duke, urging their 
imprisonment ; and the grand-duke replied, « I 
do not know whether these sixty men are Car- 
bonari, but I know if I imprison them, I shall 
directly have sixty thousand start up." But 
though the Tuscans had no desire to disturb the 
paternal government, beneath whose shelter they 
slumbered, they regai-ded the progress of the 
vaiious Italian revolutions with intense interest 
and hatred for the Austrian was warm in every 
bosom. But they had slender hopes ; they knew 
that the Neapolitans would offer no fit resistance 
to the regular German troops, and that the over- 
throw of the Constitution in Naples would act as 
a decisive blow against all struggles for Uberty in 
Italy. 

We have seen the rise and progress of reform. 
But the Holy Alliance was ahve and active in 
those days, and few could dream of the peaceful 
triumph of liberty. It seemed then that the armed 
assertion of freedom in the south of Europe was 
the only hope of the liberals, as, if it prevailed, the 
nations of the north would imitate the example. 
Happily the reverse has proved the fact. The 
countries accustomed to the exercise of the pri- 
vileges of freemen, to a limited extent, have 
extended, and are extending these limits. Freedom 
and knowledge have now a chance of proceeding 
hand in hand ; and if it continue thus, we may 



hope for the durability of both. Then, as I have 
said, in 1821, Shelley, as well as every other lover 
of Uberty, looked upon the struggles m Spain and 
Italy as decisive of the destmies of the world, pro- 
bably for centuries to come. The interest he took 
in the progress of affairs was intense. When 
Genoa declared itself fi'ee, his hopes were at their 
highest. Day after day, he read the bulletins of 
the Austrian army, and sought eagerly to gather 
tokens of its defeat. He heard of the revolt of 
Genoa with emotions of transport. His whole 
heart and soul were in the triumph of their cause. 
We were living at Pisa at that time ; and several 
well-informed Italians, at the head of whom we 
may place the celebrated Vacca, were accustomed 
to seek for sympathy in their hopes from Shelley : 
they did not find such for the despair they too 
generally experienced, founded on contempt for 
their southern countrymen. 

While the fate of the progress of the Austrian 
armies then invading Naples was yet in suspense, 
the news of another revolution filled him with 
exultation. We had formed the acquaintance at 
Pisa of several Constantinopolitan Greeks, of the 
family of Prince Caradja, formerly Hospodar of 
Wallachia, who heeuing that the bowstring, the 
accustomed finale of his viceroyalt}', was on the 
road to him, escaped with his treasures, and took 
up his abode in Tuscany. Among these was the 
gentleman to vi^hom the drama of Hellas is dedi- 
cated. Prince Mavrocordato was warmed by those 
aspirations for the independence of his country, 
which filled the hearts of many of his countrymen. 
He often intimated the possibility of aninsunrection 
in Greece ; but we had no idea of its being so near 
at hand, when, on the 1st of April, 1821, he called 
on Shelley ; bringing the proclamation of his 
cousin Prince Ipsilanti, and, radiant with exulta- 
tion and delight, declared that henceforth Greece 
would be free. 

Shelley had hymned the dawn of liberty in Spain 
and Naples, in two odes, dictated by the warmest 
enthusiasm ; — he felt himself naturally impelled 
to decorate with poetiy the uprise of the descend- 
ants of that people, whose works he regarded with 
deep admiration ; and to adopt the vaticinatory 
character in prophesying their success. " Hellas" 



204 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON HELLAS. 



was written in a moment of enthusiasm. It is 
curious to remark how well he overcomes the 
difficulty of forming a drama out of such scant 
materials. His prophecies, indeed, came true in 
their general, not their particular purport. He did 
not foresee the death of Lord Londonderry, which 
was to be the epoch of a change in English politics, 
particularly as regarded foreign affairs; nor that 
the navy of his countiy would fight for instead of 
against the Greeks ; and by the battle of Navarino 
secure their enfranchisement from the Turks. 
Almost against reason, as it appeared to him, he 
resolved to believe that Greece would prove 
triumphant ; and in this spirit, auguring ultimate 
good, yet grieving over the vicissitudes to be en- 
dured in the interval, he composed his drama. 

The chronological order to be observed in the 
arrangement of the remaining poems, is inten-upted 
here, that his dramas may follow each other con- 
secutively. " Hellas" was among the last of his 
compositions, and is among the most beautiful. 
The chorusscs are singularly imaginative, and me- 
lodious in their versification. There ai'e some 



stanzas that beautifully exemplify Shelley's pecu- 
liar style ; as, for instance, the assertion of the in- 
tellectual empire which must be for ever the in- 
heritance of the country of Homer, Sophocles, and 
Plato : 

But Greece and her foundations are 

Built below tlie tide of war j 

Based on tlie crystalline sea 

Of thought and its eternity. 

And again, that philosophical truth, feUcitously 
imaged forth — 

Revence and wrong bring forth their kind, 
The foul cubs like their parents are ; 
Their den is in the guilty mind, 
And conscience feeds them with despair. 

The conclusion of the last chorus is among t'ne 
most beautiful of his lyrics ; the imagery is dis- 
tinct and majestic ; the prophecy, such as poets 
love to dwell upon, the regeneration of mankind — 
and that regeneration reflecting back splendour on 
the foregone time, from which it inherits so much 
of intellectual wealth, and memory of past virtuous 
Jeeds, as must render the possession of happiness 
and peace of tenfold value. 



END OF HELLAS. 



(EDIPUS TYEANNUS; 

OR, 

SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT, 

IN TWO ACTS. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DORIC. 



Choose Reform or Civil War, 

When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, 
A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with hogs, 
Riding on the Ionian Minotaur, 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This Tragedy is one of a triad, or system of 
three Plays, (an arrangement according to which 
the Greeks were accustomed to connect their Dra- 
matic representations,) elucidating the wonderful 
and appalling fortunes of the Swellfoot dynasty. 
It was evidently wiitten by some learned Theban, 
and from its characteristic dulness, apparently be- 
fore the duties on the importation of Attic salt had 
been repealed by the Boetarchs. The tenderness 
with which he beats the Pigs proves him to have 
been a sus BcBofias,- possibly Epicuri de grege 
porcus ; for, as the poet observes, 



"A fellow feeling makes us wond'rous kind." 
No liberty has been taken with the translation 
of this remarkable piece of antiquity, except the 
suppressing a seditious and blasphemous chorus 
of the Pigs and Bulls at the last act. The word 
Hoydipouse, (or more properly ffidipus,) has been 
rendered literally Swellfoot, without its having 
been conceived necessary to determine whether a 
swelling of the hind or the fore feet of the Swinish 
Monarch is particularly indicated. 

Should the remaining portions of this Tragedy 
be found, entitled, « Swellfoot in Angaria," and 
" Charite" the Translator might be tempted to 
give them to the reading Public. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Ttraxt Swellfoot, King of Thebes. 
loNA Taukina, his Queen. 
Mammon, Arch-Priest of Famine. 

PUKGANAX, \ ^ 

T, f Wizards, Ministers of 

T \ Swellfoot. 

Laoctonos, j 



The Gadfly. 

The Leech. 

The Rat. 

The MiKOTAUH. 

Moses, the Sow-gelder. 

Solomon, the Porkman. 

Zephaniah, Pig-Butcher. 

Chorus of the Swinish Multitude. 
Guards, Attendants, Priests, ^c. <^c. 



Scene.— TAcSm. 



206 



(EDIPUS TYRANNUS: 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 

A magnificent Temple, built of thigh-hones and death's- 
heads, and tiled with scalps. Over the Mltar the statue 
of Famine, veiled ; a number of boars, sows, and suck- 
ing-pigs, crowned with thistle, shamrock, and oak, sit- 
ting on the steps, and clinging round the Altar of the 
Temple, 

Enter Swellfoot, in his royal robes, without perceiving 
the Pigs. 

SWELLFOOT. 

Thou supreme Goddess ! by whose power divine 
These graceful Umbs are clothed in proud array 

[i7e contemplates himself with satisfaction, 
Of gold and purple, and this kingly paunch 
Swells like a sail before a favouring breeze, 
And these most sacred nether promontories 
Lie satisfied with layers of fat ; and these 
Boeotian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, 
(Nor with less toil were their foundations laid,*) 
Sustain the cone of my untroubled brain. 
That point, the emblem of a pointless nothing ! 
Thou to whom Kings and laurelled Emperors, 
Radical-butchers, Paper-money-millers, 
Bishops and deacons, and the entire army 
Of those fat martyrs to the persecution 
Of stifling turtle-soup, and brandy-devils, 
Offer their secret vows ! Thou plenteous Ceres 
Of their Eleusis, hail ! 

THE SWIJfE. 

Eigh ! eigh ! eigh ! eigh ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

Ha ! what are ye, 
Who, crowmed vnth leaves devoted to the Furies, 
Cling round this sacred shrine 1 

SWIJTE. 

Aigh ! aigh ! aigh ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

What ! ye that are 
The very beasts that offered at her altar 
With blood and groans, salt-cake, and fat, and 

inwards. 
Ever propitiate her reluctant will 
When taxes are withheld 1 

SWINE. 

Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

What ! ye who gi'ub 
With filthy snouts my red potatoes up 
In Allan's rushy bog 1 Who eat the oats 
Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides "! 
Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks digest 
From bones, and rags, and scraps of shoe-leather. 
Which should be given to cleaner Pigs than you 1 

* See Universal History for an account of the num- 
ber of people who died, and the immense consumption 
of garlic by the wretched Egyptians, who made a sepul- 
chre for the name as well as the bodies of their tyrants. 



THE SWINE. 
SEMICHORUS I. 

The same, alas ! the same ; 

Though only now the name 

Of pig remains to me. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

If 'twere your kingly will 
Us wretched swine to kill. 

What should we yield to thee 1 

SWELLFOOT. 

Why skin and bones, and some few hairs for 
mortar. 

CHOKUS OP SWINE. 

I have heard your Laureate sing, 

That pity was a royal thing ; 

Under your mighty ancestors, we pigs 

Were bless'd as nightingales on myrtle sprigs, 

Or grasshoppers that live on noonday dew, 

And sung, old annals tell, as sweetly too : 

But now our sties are fallen in, we catch 

The murrain and the mange, the scab and itch ; 
Sometimes your royal dogs tear down our thatch, 

And then we seek the shelter of a ditch ; 
Hog-wash or grains, or ruta-baga, none 
Has yet been ours since your reign begun. 

FinsT sow. 
My pigs, 'tis in vain to tug ! 

SECOND sow. 

I could almost eat my litter ! 

FIRST pia. 
I suck, but no milk will come from the dug. 

SECOND PIG. 

Our skin and our bones would be bitter. 

THE BOARS. 

We fight for this rag of greasy rug. 
Though a trough of wash would be fitter. 

SEMICHORUS. 

Happier swine were they than we, 
Drowned in the Gadarean sea — 
I wish that pity would drive out the devils 
Which in your royal bosom hold their revels. 
And sink us in the waves of your compassion ! 
Alas ! the Pigs are an unhappy nation ! 
Now if your Majesty would have our bristles 

To bind your mortar with, or fill our colons 
With rich blood, or make bravwi out of our gristles, 

In policy — ask else your royal Solons — 
You ought to give us hog-wash and clean straw. 
And sties well thatched ; besides, it is the law ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

This is sedition, and rank blasphemy ! 
Ho ! there, my guards ! 

Enter a Guard. 

GUARD. 

Your sacred Majesty 1 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



207 



SWELLFOOT. 

Call in the Jews, Solomon the court porkman, 
Moses the sow-gelder, and Zephaniali the hog- 
butcher. 

GUARD. 

They are in waiting, sire. 

Enter Solomon, Moses, and Zephaniah. 

SWELLFOOT. 

Out with your knife, old Moses, and spay those sows, 
[The Pigs rtni about in constcrnatiun. 
That load the earth with pigs ; cut close and deep. 
Moral restraint I see has no effect. 
Nor prostitution, nor our own example, 
Starvation, typhus-fever, war, nor prison — 
This was the art which the arch-priest of Famine 
Hinted at in his charge to the Theban clergy — 
Cut close and deep, good Moses. 

MOSES. 

Let your Majesty 
Keep the boars quiet, else — • 

SWELLFOOT. 

Zephaniah, cut 
That fat hog's throat, the brute seems overfed ; 
Seditious hunks ! to whine for want of grains. 

ZEPHANIAH. 

Your sacred Majesty, he has the dropsy ; — 
We should find pints of hydatids in's liver, 
He has not half an inch of wholesome fat 
Upon his carious ribs — 

SWELLFOOT. 

'Tis all the same, 
He'll serve instead of riot-money, when 
Our murmuring troops bivouac in Thebes' streets ; 
And January winds, after a day 
Of butchering, will make them relish carrion. 
Now, Solomon, I'll sell you in a lump 
The whole kit of them. 

SOLOMON^. 

Why, your Majesty, 
I could not give 

SWELLFOOT. 

Kill them out of the way, 
That shall he price enough, and let me hear 
Their everlasting grunts and whines no more ! 

\_Exeunt, driving in the Swine. 

Enter Mammon, (Ae Arch Priest; and Puuoanax, Chief 
of the Council of Wizards. 

pcugaxax. 
The future looks as black as death, a cloud. 
Dark as the frown of Hell, hangs over it — 
The troops grow mutinous — the revenue fails — 
There's something rotten in us — for the level 
Of the State slopes, its very bases topple ; 
The boldest turn their backs upon themselves ! 

MA5IM0X. 

Why, what's the matter, my dear fellow, now ? 
Do the troops mutiny ■? — decimate some regiments ; 
Does money fail ? — come to my mint — coin paper, 
Till gold be at a discount, and, ashamed 
To show his bilious face, go purge himself, 
In emulation of her vestal whiteness. 



PURGANAX. 

Oh, would that this were all ! The oracle ! 

MAMMON. 

Why it was I who spoke that oracle. 
And whether I was dead drunk or inspired, 
I cannot well remember ; nor, in truth, 
The oracle itself! 

PURGANAX. 

The words went thus : — ■ 
" Boeotia, choose reform or civil war ! 
When through the streets, instead of hare with dogs, 
A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with hogs. 
Riding on the Ionian Minotaur." 

MAMMON. 

Now if the oracle had ne'er foretold 
This sad alternative, it must arrive, 
Or not, and so it must now that it has ; 
And whether I was urged by grace divine, 
Or Lesbian liquor to declare these words, 
Which must, as all words must, be false or true ; 
It matters not ; for the same power made all, 
Oracle, wine, and me and you — or none — 
'Tis the same thing. If you knew as much 
Of oracles as I do 

PURGANAX. 

You arch-priests 
Believe in nothing : if you were to dream 
Of a particular number in the lottery, 
You would not buy the ticket ! 

MAMMON. 

Yet our tickets 
Are seldom blanks. But what steps have you taken 1 
For prophecies, when once they get abroad. 
Like liars who tell the truth to serve their ends, 
Or hypocrites, who, from assuming virtue. 
Do the same actions that the virtuous do. 
Contrive their fulfilment. This lona — 
Well — ^you know what the chaste Pasiphae did, 
Wife to that most rehgious King of Crete, 
And still how popular the tale is here ; 
And these dull swine of Thebes boast their descent 
From the free Minotaur. You know they still 
Call themselves bulls, though thus degenerate ; 
And every thing relating to a bull 
Is popular and respectable in Thebes : 
Their arms are seven bulls m a field gules. 
They think their strength consists in eating beef,— 
Now there were danger in the precedent 
If Queen lona 

PURGANAX. 

I have taken good care 
That shall not be. I struck the crust o' the earth 
With this enchanted rod, and hell lay bare ! 
And from a cavern full of ugly shapes, 
I chose a Leech, a Gadflt, and a Rat. 
The gadfly was the same which Juno sent 
To agitate lo,* and which Ezechielt mentions 
That the Lord whistled for out of the mountains 

* Tlie Prometheus Bound of jEschylus. 
t And the Lord whistled for the gadfly out ^Ethiopia, 
and for the bee of Egypt, &c.— Ezechiel. 



208 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS; 



Of utmost Ethiopia, to torment 
Mesopotamian Babylon. The beast 
Has a loud trumpet like the Scarabee ; 
His crooked tail is barbed with many stings, 
Each able to make a thousand wounds, and each 
Immedicable ; from his convex eyes 
He sees fair things in many hideous shapes, 
And trumpets all his falsehood to the world. 
Like other beetles he is fed on dung — 
He has eleven feet with which he crawls, 
Trailing a blistering slime ; and this foul beast 
Has tracked lona from the Theban Umits, 
From isle to isle, from city unto city, 
Urging her flight from the far Chersonese 
To fabulous Solyma, and the JEtnean Isle, 
Ortygia, Melite, and Calypso's Rock, 
And the swart tribes of Garamant and Fez, 
^olia and Elysium, and thy shores, 
Parthenope, which now, alas ! are free ! 
And through the fortunate Satunnian land. 
Into the darkness of the West. 

MAMMOlir. 

But if 

This Gadfly should drive lona hither l 

PURGANAX. 

Gods ! what an if/ But there is my gray Rat ! 
So thin with want, he can crawl in and out 
Of any narrow chink and filthy hole, 
And he shall creep into her dressing-room, 
And— 

SIAMMOX. 

My dear friend, where are your wits 1 as if 
She does not always toast a bit of cheese, 
And bait the trap 1 and rats, when lean enough 
To crawl through such chinks 

PtJIlGANAX. 

But my Leech — a leech 
Fit to suck blood, with lubricous round rmgs, 
Capaciously expatiative, which make 
His little body like a red balloon. 
As full of blood as that of hydrogen, 
Sucked from men's hearts ; insatiably he sucks 
And clings and pulls — a horse-leech, whose deep 

maw 
The plethoric King Swellfoot could not fill, 
And who, till full, will cling for ever. 



This 



For Queen lona might suffice, and less ; 
But 'tis the swinish multitude I fear. 
And in that fear I have 



puhganax. 



Done what 1 



MAMMON. 

Disinherited 
My eldest son Chrysaor, because he 
Attended public meetings, and would always 
Stand prating there of commerce, public faith. 
Economy, and unadulterate coin. 
And other topics, ultra-radical ; 
And have entailed my estate, called the Fool's 
Paradise, 



And funds, in fairy-money, bonds, and bills, 
Upon my accomplished daughter Bjuiknotina, 
And married her to the Gallows.* 



PURGANAX. 



A good match ! 



IL 



A high connexion, Purganax. The bridegroom 

Is of a very ancient family 

Of Hounslow Heath, Tyburn, and the New Drop, 

And has great influence in both Houses — Oh ! 

He makes the fondest husband ; nay too fond : — ■ 

New-married people should not kiss in pubhc ; — 

But the poor souls love one another so ! 

And then my little grandchildren, the Gibbets, 

Promising children as you ever saw, — 

The young playing at hanging, the elder learning 

How to hold radicals. They are well taught too. 

For every Gibbet says its catechism, 

And reads a select chapter in the Bible 

Before he goes to play. 

[A most tremendous humviing is heard. 
PURGANAX. 

Ha ! what do I hear 1 
Enter Gadfly. 

MAMMOIT. 

Your Gadfly, as it seems, is tired of gadding. 

GADFLY. 

Hum ! hum ! hum ! 
From the lakes of the Alps, and the cold gray scalps 

Of the mountains, I come ! 

Hum ! hum ! hum ! 
From Morocco and Fez, and the high palaces 

Of golden Byzantium ; 
From the temples divine of old Palestine, 

From Athens and Rome, 

With a ha ! and a hum ! 

I come ! I come ! 

All inn-doors and windows 

Were open to me ! 
I saw all that sin does. 
Which lamps hardly see 
That burn in the night by the curtained bed, — 
The impudent lamps ! for they blushed not red. 
Dinging and singing, 
From slumber I rung her, 
Loud as the clank of an ironmonger ! 
Hum ! hum ! hum ! 

Far, far, far, 
With the trump of my lips, and the sting at my hips, 
I drove her — afar ! 
Far, far, far, 
From city to city, abandoned of pity, 

A ship without needle or star ; — 
Homeless she past, like a cloud on the blast. 
Seeking peace, finding war ; — ■ 
She is here in her car, 
From afar, and afar ; — 
Hum! hum! 

* "If one should marry a gallows, and beget young 
gibbets, I never saw one so prone." — Cymbeline. 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE tYRANT. 



209 



I have stung her and wrung her ! 

The venom is working ; — 
And if you had hung her 
With canting and quirking, 
She could not be deader than she will be soon ; — 
I have driven her close to you, under the moon. 

Night and day, hum ! hum ! ha ! 
I have hummed her and drummed her 
From place to place, till at last I have dumbed her. 
Hum! hum! hum! 



I will suck 

Blood or muck ! 
The disease of the state is a plethory, 
Who so fit to reduce it as 11 

KAT. 

I'll slily seize and 
Let blood from her weasand,-^ 
Creeping through crevice, and chink and cranny, 
With my snaky tail, and my sides so scranny. 

PURGAIVAX. 

Aroint ye ! thou unprofitable worm ! 

[To the Leech. 
And thou, dull beetle, get thee back to hell ! 

ITo the Gadfly. 
And sting the ghosts of Babylonian kings. 
And the ox-headed lo 

swijfE (within.) 
Ugh, ugh, ugh ! 
Hail ! lona the divine. 
We will be no longer swine, 
But bulls with horns and dewlaps. 

HAT. 

For, 
You know, my lord, the Minotaur 

PURGAXAX (^erce/y.) 
Be silent ! get to hell ! or I will call 
The cat out of the kitchen. Well, Lord Mammon, 
This is a pretty business ! [Eiij the Rat. 

HAMMOX. 

I will go 
And spell some scheme to make it ugly then. 
Enter Swellfoot. 

SWELLFOOT. 

She is returned ! Taurina is in Thebes 
When Swellfoot wishes that she were in hell ! 
Oh, Hymen ! clothed in yellow jealousy. 
And waving o'er the couch of wedded kings 
The torch of Discord with its fiery hair! 
This is thy work, thou patron saint of queens ! 
Swellfoot is wived ! though parted by the sea, 
The very name of wife had conjugal rights ; 
Her cursed image ate, drank, slept with me, 
And in the arms of Adiposa oft 
Her memory has received a husband's 

[.4 loud tumult, and cries of " lona for ever ! — No 
Swellfoot!" 



SWELLFOOT. 



Hark! 



How the swine cry lona Taurina ! 
27 



I suflTer the real presence : Purganax, 
Off with her head ! 



PURGAIfAX. 



A jury of the pigs. 



But I must first empannel 



SWELLFOOT. 

Pack them then. 

PURGANAX. 

Or fattening some few in two separate sties, 
And giving them clean straw, tying some bits 
Of ribbon round their legs — giving their sows 
Some tawdry lace, and bits of lustre glass. 
And their young boars white and red rags, and tails 
Of cows, and jay feathers, and sticking cauliflowers 
Between the ears of the old ones ; and when 
They are persuaded, that by the inherent virtue 
Of these things, they are all imperial pigs. 
Good Lord ! they'd rip each other's bellies up, 
Not to say help us in destroying her. 

SWELLFOOT. 

This plan might be tried too ; — where's General 
Laoctonos 1 

Enter Laoctonos and Dakry. 
It is my royal pleasure 

That you, Lord General, bring the head and body, 
If separate it would please me better, hither 
Of Queen lona. 

LAOCTONOS. 

That pleasure I well knew, 
And made a charge with those battalions bold. 
Called, fi-om their dress and grin, the royal apes, 
Upon the swine, who in a hollow square 
Enclosed her, and received the first attack 
Like so many rhinoceroses, and then 
Retreating in good order, with bare tusks 
And wrinkled snouts presented to the foe, 
Bore her in triumph to the public sty. 
What is still worse, some sows upon the ground 
Have given the ape-guards apples, nuts, and gin, 
And they all whisk their tails aloft, and ciy, 
« Long live lona ! down with Swellfoot !" 



PUBBANAX. 



Hark! 



THE SWINE (without.') 

Long live lona ! down with Swellfoot ! 



Went to the garret of the swineherd's tower, 
Which overlooks the sty, and made a long 
Harangue (all words) to the assembled swine, 
Of delicacy, mercy, judgment, law. 
Morals, and precedents, and purity, 
Adultery, destitution, and divorce. 
Piety, faith, and state necessity. 
And how I loved the queen ! — and then I wept, 
With the pathos of my own eloquence, 
And every tear turned to a millstone, which 
Brained many a gaping pig, and there was made 
A slough of blood and brains upon the place, 
s2 



210 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS; 



Greased with the pounded bacon ; round and rouad 
The millstones rolled, ploughing the pavement up, 
And hurling sucking pigs into the air, 
With dust and stones. 

Enter Mammon. 

MAMMON. 

I wonder that gray wizards 
Like you should be so beardless in their schemes ; 
It had been but a point of pohcy 
To keep lona and the swine apart. 
Divide and rule ! but ye have made a junction 
Between two parties who will govern you, 
But for my art. — Behold this bag I it is 
The poison bag of that Green Spider huge, 
On which our spies skulked in ovation through 
The streets of Thebes, when they were paved with 

dead: 
A bane so much the deadlier fills it now. 
As calumny is worse than death, — for here 
The Gadfly's venom, fifty times distilled, 
Is mingled with the vomit of the Leech, 
In due proportion, and black ratsbane, which 
That very Rat, who, hke the Pontic tyrant. 
Nurtures himself on poison, dare not touch ; — • 
All is sealed up with the broad seal of Fraud, 
Who is the Devil's Lord High Chancellor, 
And over it the primate of all Hell 
Murmured this pious baptism : — " Be thou called 
The GREEN bag: and this power and grace be thine : 
That thy contents, on whomsoever poured, 
Turn innocence to guilt, and gentlest looks 
To savage, foul, and fierce deformity. 
Let all, baptized by thy infernal dew. 
Be called adulterer, drunkard, liar, wretch ! 
No name left out which orthodoxy loves, 
Court Journal or legitimate Review ! — 
Be they called tyrant, beast, fool, glutton, lover 
Of other wives and husbands than their own — 
The heaviest sin on this side of the Alps ! 
Wither they to a ghastly caricature 
Of what was human ! — let not man nor beast 
Behold their face with unaverted eyes ! 
Or hear their names with ears that tingle not 
With blood of indignation, rage and shame 5" 
This is a perilous liquor ; — good my Lords. 

[S WELLFOOT approaches to touch the green bag. 



Bev/are ! for God's sake, beware ! — if you should 

break 
The seal, and touch the fatal liquor 



pvrgastax. 

There ! 
Give it to mc. I have been used to handle 
All sorts of poisons. His dread majesty 
Only desires to see the colour of it. 

MAMMON. 

Now, with a little common sense, my Lords, 

Only undoing all that has been done, 

(Yet so as it may seem we but confirm it,) 

Our victxjiy is assured. We must entice 

Her Majesty from the sty, and make the pigs 

Believe that the contents of the gheen bag 

Are the true test of guilt or innocence. 

And that, if she be guilty, 'twill transform her 

To manifest deformity like guilt. 

If innocent, she will become transfigured 

Into an angel, such as they say she is ; 

And they will see her flying through tlie air, 

So bright that s-he will dim the noonday sun; 

Showering down blessings in the shape of comfits. 

This, trust a priest, is just the sort of thing 

Swine will believe. I'll wager you will see them 

Climbing upon the thatch of then' low sties ; 

With pieces of smoked glass, to watch her sail 

Among the clouds, and some will hold the flaps 

Of one another's ears between their teeth, 

To catch the coming hail of comfits in. 

You, Purganax, who have the gifl; o' the gab, 

Make them a solemn speech to this eifect ; 

I go to put in readiness the feast 

Kept to the honour of our goddess Famine, 

Where, for more glory, let the ceremony 

Take place of the uglification of the Queen. 

dakut (To SwELLroox.) 

I, as the keeper of your sacred conscience, 
Humbly remind your Majesty that the care 
Of your high office, as man-milliner 
To red Bellona, should not be defeiTed. 

PUKGANAX. 



All paii, in happier plight to meet again. 



l^Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE L 

The Public Sty. 

The Boars in full AssevMy. 

Enter Pueganax. 

PURGANAX. 

Grant me your patience. Gentlemen and Boars, 
Ye, by whose patience under public burdens 
The glorious constitution of these sties 
Subsists, and shall subsist. The lean pig-rates 
Grow with the growing populace of swine. 



The taxes, that true source of piggishness, 
(How can I find a more appropriate term 
To include religion, morals, peace, and plenty, 
And all that fits Bffiotia as a nation 
To teach the other nations how to live !) 
Increase with piggishness itself; and still 
Does the revenue, that great spring of all 
The patronage, and pensions, and hy-paymeuts, 
Which freeborn pigs regard with jealous eyes, 
Diminish, till at length, by glorious steps, 
All the land's produce will be merged in taxes, 
And the revenue will amount to nothing ! 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



211 



The failure of a foreign market for 
Sausages, bristles, and blood-puddings, 
And but such home manufactures, is but partial ; 
And, that the population of the pigs, 
Instead of hog-wash has been fed on straw 
And water, is a fact which is — you know — ■ 
That is — it is a state necessity — 
Temporary, of course. Those impious pigs, 
Who, by frequent squeaks, have dared impugn 
The settled Swellfoot system, or to make 
Irreverent mockery of the genuflexions 
Inculcated by the arch-priest, have been whipt 
Into a loyal and an orthodox whine. 
Things being in tliis happy'state, the Queen 

lona 

[j? loiid cry from the Pigs. 
She is innocent ! most innocent ! 

PURGASTAX. 

That is the very thing that I was saying. 
Gentlemen Swine ; the Queen lona being 
Most innocent, no doubt, returns to Thebes, 
And the lean sows and boars collect about her, 
Wishing to make her tliink that we believe 
(I mean those more substantial pigs, who swill 
Rich hog-wash, while the others mouth damp 

straw,) 
That she is guilty ; thus, the lean-pig faction 
Seeks to obtain that hog-wash, which has been 
Your immemorial right, and which I will 
Maintain you in to the last drop of — 



A BOAR (interrupting him.) 



What 



Does any one accuse her of ? 



puhgaxax. 



Why, no one 
Makes any positive accusation ; — but 
There were hints dropped, and so the privy wizards 
Conceived that it became them to ad-sase 
His majesty to investigate their truth ; — 
Not for his own sake ! he could be content 
To let his wife play any pranks she pleased. 
If, by that sufferance, fie could please the pigs ; 
But then he fears the morals of the swine, 
The sows especially, and what effect 
It might produce upon the purity and 
Religion of the rising generation 
Of sucking-pigs, if it could be suspected 
That Queen lona — [-^ pause. 

FIRST BOAR. 

WeH, go on ; we long 
To hear what she can possibly have done. 

PUEGANAX. 

Why, it is hinted, that a certain bull — 

Thus much is known : — the milkwhite bulls that 

feed 
Beside Clitumnus and the crystal lakes 
Of the Cisalpine mountains, in fresh dews 
Of lotus-grass and blossoming asphodel, 
Sleeking their silken hair, and with sweet breath 
Loading the morning winds until Uiey faint 
With living fragrance, are so beautiful ! — ■ 



Well, / say nothing : — but Europa rode 
On such a one from Asia into Crete, 
And the enamoured sea grew calm beneath 
His gliding beauty. And Pasiphae, 

lona's grandmother, ^but she is innocent ! 

And that both you and I, and all assert. 



Most innocent ! 



FIRST BOAR. 
PURGANAX. 

Behold this Bag ; a bag — • 



SECOND BOAR. 

Oh ! no Green Bags ! ! Jealousy's eyes are green, 
Scorpions are green, and water-snakes, and efts, 
And verdigris, and — 

PURGANAX. 

Honourable swine, 
In piggish souls can prepossessions reign 1 
Allow me to remind you, grass is green — ■ 
All flesh is grass ; — no bacon but is flesh — 
Ye are but bacon. This divining Bag 
(Which is not green, but only bacon colour) 
Is filled with liquor, which if sprinkled o'er 
A woman guilty of — we all know what — • 
Makes her so hideous, till she finds one blind. 
She never can commit the like again. 
If innocent, she will turn into an angel, 
And rain down blessings in the shape of comfits 
As she flies up to heaven. Now, my proposal 
Is to convert her sacred Majesty 
Into an angel, (as I am sure we shall do,) 
By pouring on her head this mystic water. 

IShoicinff the Bag. 
I know that she is innocent ; I wish 
Only to prove her so to all the world. 

FIRST BOAR. 

Excellent, just, and noble Purganax ! 

SECOND BOAR. 

How glorious it will be to see her Majesty 
Flying above our heads, her petticoats 
Streaming like — like — like — • 

THIRD BOAR. 

Any thing. 

PURGANAX. 

Oh, no! 
But like a standard of an admiral's ship, 
Or like the banner of a conquering host, 
Or like a cloud dyed in the dying day. 
Unravelled on the blast from a white mountain ; 
Or like a meteor, or a war-steed's mane. 
Or water-fall from a dizzy precipice 
Scattered upon the wind. 

FIRST BOAR. 

Or a cow's tail, — • 

SECOND BOAR. 

Or any thing, as the learned Boar observed. 

PURGANAX. 

Gentlemen Boars, I move a resolution, 
That her most sacred Majesty should be 
Invited to attend the feast of Famine, 



212 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS; 



And to receive upon her chaste white body 
Dews of Apotheosis from this Bag. 

[A great confusion is heard of the Pigs out of 

Doors, which communicates itself to those within. 

During the first Stroj/he, the doors of the Sty are 

staved in, and a number of exceedingly lean Pigs 

and Sows and Boars rush in. 

SEMICHonus I. 
No! Yes! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Yes! No! 

SEMICHOHUS I. 

A law! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

A flaw! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Porkers, we shall lose our wash, 
Or must share it with the lean pigs ! 

FIRST BOAR. 

Order ! order ! be not rash ! 

Was there ever such a scene, Pigs ! 

AN OLD sow (rushing in.") 
I never saw so fine a dash 
Since I first began to wean pigs. 

SECOND BOAR (soklTHlll/.') 

The Queen will be an angel time enough. 
I vote, in form of an amendment, that 
Purganax rub a little of that stufi' 
Upon his face — 

PURGANAX. 

[His heart is seen to beat through his waistcoat. 
Gods ! What would ye be at ] 

SEMICHORUS r. 
Purganax has plainly shovvoi a 
Cloven foot and jack-daw feather. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

I vote Swellfoot and Tona 
Try the magic test together ; 
Whenever royal spouses bicker. 
Both should try the magic liquor. 

AN OLD BOAR (UStde.') 

A miserable state is that of pigs, 
For if their drivers would tear caps and wigs, 
The swine must bite each other's ear therefore. 

AN OLD sow (aside.^ 
A wretched lot Jove has assigned to swine. 
Squabbling makes pig-herds hungry, and they dine 
On bacon, and whip sucking-pigs tlie more. 

CHORUS. 

Hog-wash has been ta'en away : 
If the Bull-Queen is divested, 
We shall be in every way 

Hunted, stript, exposed, molested ; 
Let us do whate'er we may. 
That she shall not be an-estcd. 
Queen, we entrench you with walls of brawn. 
And palisades of tusks, sharp as a bayonet : 
Place your most sacred person here. We pawn 
Our lives that none a finger dare to lay on it. 



Those who wrong you, wrong us; 

Those who hate you, hate us : 

Those who sting you, sting us ; 

Those who bait you, bait us ; 

The oracle is now about to be 

Fulfilled by circumvolving destiny ,• 
Which says : " Thebes, choose reform or civil war, 
When through your streets, instead of hare with 

dogs, 
A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with 

hogs, 
Riding upon the Ionian Minotaur." 
Enter Iona Taurisa. 

loNA Taurina (coming forward.') 
Gentlemen swine, and gentle lady-pigs, 
The tender heart of every boar acquits 
Their Queen, of any act incongruous 
With native piggishness, and she reposing 
With confidence upon the grunting nation. 
Has thrown herself, her cause, her fife, her all. 
Her innocence, into their hoggish arms ; 
Nor has the expectation been deceived 
Of finding shelter there. Yet know, great boars, 
(For such who ever lives among you finds you, 
And so do I) the innocent are proud ! 
I have accepted your protection only 
In compliment of your kind love and care. 
Not for necessity. The innocent 
Are safest there where trials and dangers wait; 
Innocent Queens o'er white-hot ploughshai'es 

tread 
Unsinged ; and ladies, Erin's laureate sings it,* 
Decked with rare gems and beauty rarer still. 
Walked fi-om Killarney to the Giant's Causeway, 
Through rebels, smugglers, troops of yeomanry, 
White-bo3-s, and orange-boys, and constables. 
Tithe-proctors, and excise people, uninjured ! 
Thus I !— 

Lord Purganax, I do commit myself 
Into your custody, and am prepaicd 
To stand the test, whatever it may be ! 

PURGANAX. 

This magnanimity in your sacred Majesty 
Must please the pigs. You cannot fail of being 
A heavenly angel. Smoke your bits of glass 
Ye loyal swine, or her transfiguration 
Will bhnd your wondering eyes. 

AN OLD BOAR (as/tfe.) 

Take care, my Lord, 
They do not smoke you first. 

PURGANAX. 

At the approaching feast 
Of Famine, let the expiation be. 

swine. 
Content! content! 

IONA TAURINA (aside.") 
I, most content of all. 
Know that my foes even tlius prepare their fall ! 

[Exeunt omnes. 



' Rich and rare were the gems she wore." 

See Moore's Irish Melodies. 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



213 



SCENE ir. 

The interior of the Temple of Famine. The statue of 
the Goddess, a skeleton clothed in party-coloured rags, 
seated upon a heap of skulls and loaves intermingled. 
A number of exceedingly fat Priests in black garments 
arrayed on each side, with marrow-bones and cleavers 
in their hand •. A flourish of trumpets. 

Enter Mammon as Arch-priest, Swellfoot, 
Dakry, Purganax, Laoctonos, followed by 
loNA Taurina guarded. On the other side enter 
the Swine. 

cHonus OF spiniTS, 

Accompanied by the Court Porkman on marrow-bones . 
and cleavers. 
Goddess bare, and gaunt, and pale, 
E mpress of the world, all hail ! 
What though Cretans old called thee 
City-crested Cybele 1 
We call thee Famine ! 

Goddess of fasts and feasts, starving and cram- 
ming ; 
Tlirough thee, for emperors, kings, and priests and 

lords. 
Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank-notes, words, 
The earth pours forth its plenteous fruits, 
Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots — [fat. 

Those who consume these fruits through thee grow 
Those who produce these fruits through thee 
grow lean, 
WTiatever change takes place, oh, stick to that ! 

And let things be as they have ever been : 
At least while v^e remain thy priests, 
And proclaim thy fasts and feasts ! 
Through thee the sacred Swellfoot dynasty 
Is based upon a rock amid that sea 
Whose waves are swine — ^so let it ever be ! 

[Swellfoot, i^c. seat tliemselves at a table, magnifi- 
cently covered at the upper end of the temple. Attend- 
ants pass over the stage with hog-wash in pails. A 
■number of Pigs, exceedingly lean, follow them licking 
up the wash. 

MAMMON. 

I fear your sacred Majesty has lost 

The appetite which you were used to have. 

Allow me now to recommend this dish — 

A simple kickshaw by your Persian cook. 

Such as is served at the great King's second table. 

The price and pains which its ingredients cost, 

Might have maintained some dozen families 

A winter or two — not more — so plain a dish 

Could scarcely disagree. — 

SWELLFOOT. 

After the trial. 
And these fastidious pigs are gone, perhaps 
I may recover my lost appetite, — 
I feel the gout flying about my stomach — 
Give me a glass of Maraschino punch. 

PURGANAX. 

l^Filling his glass, and standing up. 
The glorious constitution of the Pigs ! 

ALL, 

A toast ! a toast ! stand up, and three times three ! 



DAKRT. 

No heel-taps — darken day-lights ! 

LAOCTONOS. 

Claret, somehow, 
Puts me in mind of blood, and blood of claret ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

Laoctonos is fishing for a compliment. 

But 'tis hisdue. Yes, you have drunk more wine, 

And shed more blood, than any man in Thebes. 

{To PuRBANAX.) 

For God's sake stop the gruntmg of those pigs ! 

PURGANAX. 

We dare not, sire ! 'tis Famine's privilege. 

CHORUS OF SWINE. 

Hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine ! 

Thy throne is on blood, and thy rope is of rags ; 
Thou devil which livest on damning ; 

Saint of new churches, and cant, and Green 

Till in pity and terror thou risest, [Bags ; 

Confounding the schemes of the wisest. 

When thou liftest thy skeleton form. 

When the loaves and the skulls roll about, 

We will greet thee — the voice of a storm 
Would be lost in our terrible shout ! 

Then hail to thee, hail to thee. Famine ! 

Hail to thee, Empress of Earth! 
When thou risest, dividing possessions ; 
When thou risest, uprooting oppressions ; 

In the pride of thy ghastly mu-th. 
Over palaces, temples, and graves, 
We will rush as thy minister-slaves, 
Trampling behind in thy train, 
Till all will be made level again ! 

MAMMON. 

I hear a crackling of the giant bones 
Of the dread image, and in the black pits 
Which once were eyes, I see two livid flames : 
These prodigies are oracular, and show 
The presence of the unseen Deity. 
Mighty events are hastening to their doom ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

I only hear the lean and mutinous swine 
Grunting about the temple. 

DAKRT. 

In a crisis 
Of such exceeding delicacy, I think 
We ought to put her Majesty the Queen, 
Upon her trial without delay. 



MAMMON. 



The Bag 



Is here. 



PURGANAX. 

I have rehear.sed the entire scene 
With an ox-bladder and some ditch-water, 
On Lady P. — it cannot fail. 

[Taking up the bag 



214 CEDIPUS TYRANNUS; OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT. 



Your Majesty (to Swellfoot) 
In such a filthy business had better 
Stand on one side, lest it should sprinkle you. 
A spot or two on me would do no harm ; 
Nay, it might hide the blood, which the sad genius 
Of the Green Isle has fixed, as by a spell. 
Upon my brow — which would stain all its seas, 
But which those seas could never wash away ! 

lOXA TAUniNA. 

My Lord, I am ready — nay I am impatient, 

To undergo the test. 

[j9 graceful fig-tire in a semi-transparent veil passes 
unnoticed through the Temple ; the word Liberty 
is seen through the veil, as if it were written in fire 
upon its forehead. Its words are almost droionedin 
the furious grunting of the Pigs, and the business 
of the trial. She kneels on the steps of the Mtar, 
and speaks in tones at first faint and low, but which 
ever become louder and louder. 

Mighty Empress ! Death's white wife ! 
Ghastly mother-in-law of life ! 
By the God who made thee such, 
By the magic of thy touch. 
By the starving and the cramming. 
Of fasts and feasts ! — by thy dread self, O Famine ! 
I charge thee ! when thou wake the multitude. 
Thou lead them not upon the paths of blood. 
The earth did never mean her foizon 
For those who crown life's cup with poison 
Of fanatic rage and meaningless revenge — 
But for those radiant spirits, who are still 
The standard-bearers in the van of Change. 

Be they th' appointed stewards, to fill 
The lap of Pain, and toll, .and Age ! — 
Remit, Queen ! thy accustom'd rage ! 
Be what thou art not ! In voice faint and low 
FiiEEDOjr calls Famine, — her eternal foe, 
To brief alliance, hollow truce. — 'Rise now ! 

[Whilst the veiled Figure has been chaunting this 
strophe. Mammon, Dakry, Laoctonos, and 
Swellfoot, have surrounded Ion a Taurina, 
who, with her hands folded on her breast, and her 
eyes lifted to Heaven, stands, as with saint-like 
resignation, to wait the issue of the busijiess, in 
perfect confidence of her innocence. 

PuRGANAX, after unsealing the Green Bag, is 
gravely about to pour the liquor upon her head, 
when suddenly the whale expression of her figure and 
countenance changes ; she snatches it from his hand 
with a loud laugh of triumph, and empties it over 
SvvELLFOOT«7uZ his whole Court, who are instantly 
changed into a number of filthy and ugly animals, 
and rush out of the Temple. The image 0/ Famine 
then arises with a tremendous sound, the Pigs begin 
scrambling for the loaves, and are tripped up by 



the skulls ; all those who eat the loaves are turned 
into Bulls, and arrange themselves quietly behind 
tin altar. The image of Famine sinks through a 
chasm in the earth, and a Minotaur rises. 

MIXOTATTH. 

I am the Ionian Minotaur, the mightiest 

Of all Europa's progeny — 

I am the old traditional man bull ; 

And from my ancestors having been Ionian, 

I am called Ion, which, by interpretation. 

Is John ; in plain Theban, that is to say. 

My name's John Bull ; I am a famous hunter 

And can leap any gate in all Bceotia, 

Even the palings of the royal park. 

Or double ditch about the new enclosures ; 

And if your Majesty will deign to mount me. 

At least till you have hunted down your game, 

I will not throw you. 

lONA TAUniNA. 

[During this speech she has been putting on boots 
and spurs, and a hunting-cap, buckishly cocked on 
one side, and tucking up her hair, she leaps nimbly 
on his back. 

Hoa ! hoa ! tallyho ! tallyho ! ho ! ho ! 
Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers down. 
These stinking foxes, these devouiing otters, 
These hares, these wolves, these any thing but men. 
Hey, for a whipper-in ! my loyal pigs, 
Now let your noses be as keen as beagles'. 
Your steps as swift as grayhounds', and your cries 
More dulcet and symphonious than the bells 
Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday ; 
Wake all the dewy woods with jangling music. 
Give them no law (are they not beasts of blood?) 
But such as they gave you. Tallyho ! ho ! 
Through forest, furze, and bog, and den, and desert, 
Pursue the ugly beasts ! tallyho ! ho ! 

FULL CHORUS OF ZONA AND THE SWINE. 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
Tlirough rain, hail, and snow. 
Through brake, gorse, and brier, 
Through fcn^ flood, and mire, 

We go ! we go ! 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
Through pond, ditch, and slough, 
Wind them, and find them, 
Lilio the Devil behind thorn, 

Tallyho ! tallyho ! 
[Exeunt, in full cry ; Ion A driving on the SwiNE, 
with the empty Green Bag. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON CEDIPUS TYRANNUS. 



215 



NOTE ON (EDIPUS TYRANNUS. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



l!>f the brief journal I kept in thoi3e days, I find 
recorded, in August, 1820, Shelley " begins Swell- 
foot the Tyrant, suggested by the pigs at the fair 
of San Giuliano." This was the period of Queen 
Caroline's landing in England, and the struggles 
made by Geo. IV. to get rid of her claims; which 
failing. Lord Castlereagh placed the " Green Bag" 
on the table of the House of Commons, demand- 
ing, in the King's name, that an inquiry should be 
instituted into his wife's conduct. These circum- 
stances were the theme of all conversation among 
the English. We were then at the Baths of San 
Giuliano ; a friend came to visit us on the day 
when a fair was held in the square, beneath our 
windows : Shelley read to us his ode to Liberty ; 
and was riotously accompanied by the grunting of 
a quantity of pigs brought for sale to the fair. He 
compared it to the « chorus of frogs" in the satiric 
drama of Aristophanes ; and it being an hour of 
merriment, and one ludicrous association suggest- 
ing another, he imagined a pohtical satirical drama 
on the circumstances of the day, to which the pigs 
would serve as chorus — and Swellfoot was begun. 
When finished, it was transmitted to England, 
printed and pubKshed anonymously ; but stifled at 
the very davm of its existence by the " Societ}'- for 
the Suppression of Vice," who threatened to pro- 
secute it, if not immediately withdrawn. The 
friend who had taken the trouble of bringing it out, 
of course did not think it worth the annoyance au<l 
expense of a contest, and it was laid aside. 



Hesitation of whether it would do honour to 
Shelley prevented my publishing it at first ; but 
I cannot bring myself to keep back anything he 
ever wrote, for each word is fraught with the pe- 
cuhar views and sentiments which he believed to 
be beneficial to the human race ; and the bright 
light of poetry irradiates every thought. The 
world has a right to the entire compositions of 
such a man ; for it does not live and thrive by the 
out-worn lesson of the dullard or the hypocrite, but 
by the original free thoughts of men of Genius, 
who aspire to pluck bright truth 



" from the palefaced moon; 

Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 

And pluck up drowned — " 

truth. Even those who may dissent fi-om his 
opinions will consider that he was a man of genius, 
and that the world wll take more interest in his 
slightest word, than fi'om the waters of Lethe, 
which are so eagerly prescribed as medicinal for all 
its wrongs and woes. This drama, however, must 
not be judged for more than was meant. It is a 
mere plaything of the imagination, which even 
may not excite smiles among many, who will not 
see wit in those combinations of thought which 
were full of the ridiculous to the author. But, 
like every thing he wrote, it breathes that deep 
sympathy for the sorrows of humanity, and indig- 
nation against its oppressors, which make it worthy 
of bis name. 



EAELY POEMS. 



MUTABILITY. 

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon ; 

How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, 
Streaking the darkness radiantly ! — yet soon 

Night closes round, and they are lost for ever : 

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings 
Give various response to each varying blast. 

To whose frail frame no second motion brings 
One mood or modulation like the last. 

We rest — A dream has power to poison sleep ; 

We rise — One wandering thought pollutes the 
day;_ 
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep ; 

Embrace fond wo, or cast our cai'es away : 

It is the same ! — ^For, be it joy or son-ow, 
The path of its departure still is free ; 

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow ; 
Nought may endure but Mutability. 



ON DEATH. 

There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wia- 
dom, in the grave, whither thou goest. — Ecclesiastes. 

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile 
Which the meteor beam of a starless night 

Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle. 

Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light. 

Is the flame of life so fickle and wan 

That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. 

O man ! hold thee on in courage of soul 

Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way. 

And the billows of cloud that around thee roll 
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, 

Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free 

To the universe of destiny. 

This world is the nurse of all we know. 
This world is the mother of all we feel, 

And the coming of death is a fearful blow. 

To a brain unencompassed wdth nerves of steel ; 

When all that we know, or feel, or see, 

Shall pass like an unreal mystery. 

The secret things of the grave are there, 
Where all but this frame must surely be. 

Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear 
No longer will live to hear or to see 

All that is great and all that is strange 

In the boundless realm of unending change. 
216 



Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death ? 

Who lifteth the veil of what is to come ? 
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath 

The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb 1 
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be 
With the fears and the love for that which we see 7 



A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCHYARD, 

I.ECHDALE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere 
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray ; 

And pallid evening twines its beaming hair 

In duskier braids around the languid eyes of day : 

Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men, 

Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen. 

Tliey breathe their spells towards the departing day, 
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea ; 

Light, sound, and motion own the potent s-way, 
Responding to the charm with its own mystery. 

The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass 

Knows not their gentle motions as they pass. 

Thou too, aerial Pile ! whose pinnacles 

Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire, 

Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells, 
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant 

Around whose lessening and invisible height [spire, 

Gather among the stars the clouds of night. 

The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres : 

And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound. 

Half sense, half thought, among the darkness stirs. 
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things 
around. 

And mingling with the still night and mute sky 

Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. 

Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild 
And terrorless as this serenest night : 

Here could I hope, like some inquiring child 
Sporting on graves, that death did hide from 
human sight 

Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep 

That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep. 



'PQ * * * *^ 

AAKPTEI AlOISii HOTMON AHOTIMON, 

Oh ! there are spirits in the air, 
And genii of the evening breeze. 



EARLY POEMS. 



217 



And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 
As starbcams among twilight trees : — 
Such lovely ministers to meet 
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet. 

With mountain winds, and babbling springs, 

And mountain seas, that are the voice 
Of these inexplicable things, 

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice 
When they did answer thee ; but they 
Cast, Uke a worthlc;gs boon, thy love away. 

And thou hast sought in starry eyes 

Beams that were never meant for thine, 
Another's wealth ; — tame sacrifice 

To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine ] 
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, 
Voice, looks, or hps, may answer thy demands 1 

Ah ! wherefore didst thou build thine hope 

On the false earth's inconstancy 1 
Did thine own mind afford no scope 
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee ] 
That natural scenes or human smiles 
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles. 

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted ; 
The glory of the moon is dead ; 

Night's ghost and dreams have now departed ; 
Thine own soul still is true to thee. 
But changed to a foul fiend through misery. 

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs. 
Dream not to chase ; — the mad endeavour 
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate. 
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate. 



STANZAS.— APRIL, 1814. 

Away ! the moor is dark beneath the moon, 
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of 
even : [soon, 

Away ! the gathering winds will call the darkness 
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene 
lights of heaven. [Away ! 

Pause not ! The time is past ! Every voice cries. 
Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's un- 
gentle mood : [treat thy stay : 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares nol en- 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to sohtude. 

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent home ; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth ; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and 
come, [mirth ; 

And comphcate strange webs of melancholy 
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float 
around thine head, [thy feet : 

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath 
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost 
that binds the dead, 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere 
thou and peace may meet. 
28 



The cloud shadows of midniglit possess their own 
repose, [in the deep ; 

For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is 
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean 
knows ; 
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its 
appointed sleep. [flee 

Thou in the grave shalt rest — yet till the phantoms 
Wliich that house and heath and garden made 
dear to thee erewhile. 
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep 
musings, are not fi-ee. 
From the music of two voices, and the light of 
one sweet smile. 



LINES. 



The cold earth slept below, 
Above the cold sky shone, 

And all around 

With a chilling sound. 
From caves of ice and fields of snow. 
The breath of night like death did flow 

Beneath the sinking moon. 

The wintry hedge was black. 
The green grass was not seen, 

The birds did rest 

On the bare thorn's breast, 
Whose roots, beside the pathway track, 
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack 

Which the frost had made between. 

Thine eyes glowed in the glare 
Of the moon's dying light. 

As a fen-fire's beam 

On a sluggish stream 
Gleams dimly — so the moon shone there. 
And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair, 

That shook in the wind of night. 

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ; 
The wind made thy bosom cliill ; 

The night did shed 

On thy dear head 
Its fi-ozen dew, and thou didst lie 
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 

Might visit thee at will. 
JVovember, 1815. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know 
That things depart which never may return ; 
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first 

glow. 
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. 
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine. 
Which thou too feel'st ; yet I alone deplore. 
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine 
On some fi-ail bark in winter's midnight roar ; 
T 



218 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON THE EARLY POEMS. 



Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood 
Above the blind and battling multitude : 
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave 
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty, — • 
Deserting these, thou leavcst me to grieve, 
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be. 



FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE 
FALL OF BONAPARTE. 

I HATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did gi'oan 
To think that a most ambitious slave, 



Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave 
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne 
Where it had stood even now : thou didst prefer 
A frail and bloody pomp, which time has swept 
In fragments towards oblivion. Massacre, 
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have 

crept. 
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust, 
And stifled thee, their minister. I know 
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust, 
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe 
Than force or fraud : old Custom, legal Crime, 
And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of time. 



NOTE ON THE EARLY POEMS. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



The remainder of Shelley's Poems will be 
arranged in the order in which they were written. 
Of course, mistakes will occur in placing some of 
the shorter ones; for, as I have said, many of 
these were thrown aside, and I never saw them 
till I had the misery of looking over his writings, 
after the hand that traced them was dust; and 
some were in the hands of others, and I never saw 
them till now. The subjects of the poems are 
often to me an unerring guide ; but on other 
occasions, I can only guess, by finding them in the 
pages of the same manuscript book that contains 
poems with the date of whose composition I am 
fully conversant. In the present arrangement all 
his poetical translations will be placed together at 
the end of the volume. 

The loss of his eai-ly papers prevents my being 
able to give any of the poetry of his boyhood. Of 
the few I give as early poems, the greater part 
were published with " Alastor ;" some of them 
were written previously, some at the same period. 
The poem beginning, " Oh, there are spirits in the 
air," was addressed in idea to Coleridge, whom he 
never knew ; and at whose character he could only 
guess imperfectly, through his writings, and ac- 
counts he heard of him from some who knew 
him well. He regarded his change of opinions as 
rather an act of will than conviction, and believed 
that in his inner heart he would be haunted by 
what Shelley considered the better and holier 
aspirations of his youth. The summer evening 
that suggested to him the poem written in the 
churchyard of Lechdale, occurred during his 



voyage up the Thames, in the autumn of 1815. 
He had been advised by a physician to live as 
much as possible in the open air ; and a fortnight 
of a bright warm July was spent in tracing the 
Thames to its source. He never spent a season 
more tranquilly than the summer of 1815. He 
had just recovered from a severe pulmonary attack; 
the weather was warm and pleasant. He lived 
near Windsor Forest, and his life was spent under 
its shades, or on the water; meditating subjects 
for verse. Hitherto, he had chiefly aimed at 
extending his political doctrines ; and attempted 
so to do by appeals, in prose essays, to the people, 
exhorting them to claim their rights ; but he had 
now begun to feel that the time for action was not 
ripe in England, and that the pen was the only 
instrument wherewith to jirepare the way for 
better things. 

In the scanty journals kept during those years, 
I find a record of the books that Shelley read 
during several years. During the years of 1814 
and 1815, the list is extensive. It includes in 
Greek ; Homer, Hesiod, Theocritus — the histories 
of Thucydides and Herodotus, and Diogenes Laer- 
tius. In Latin ; Petronius, Suetonius, some of the 
works of Cicero, a large proportion of those of Se- 
neca and Livy, In English; Milton's Poems, 
Wordsworth's Excursion, Southey's Madoc and 
Thalaba, Locke on the Human Understanding, 
Bacon's Novum Organum. In Italian, Ariosto, 
Tasso, and Alfieri. In French, the Reveries d'un 
Solitaire of Rousseau. To these may be added seve- 
ral modem books of travels. He read few^ novels. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXYI. 



THE SUNSET. 

There late was One, within whose subtle being, 
As Hght and wind within some delicate cloud 
That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky, 
Genius and death contended. None ma}' know 
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath 
Fail, like the trances of the summer air. 
When, with the Lady of his love, who then 
First knew the unreserve of mingled being. 
He walked along the pathway of a field, 
Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o'er, 
But to the west was open to the sky. 
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold 
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points 
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers, 
And the old dandelion's hoary beard, 
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay 
On the brown massy woods — and in the east 
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose 
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees, 
While the faint stars were gathering overhead. — 
" Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth, 
" I never saw the sun ] We will walk here 
To-morrow ; thou shalt look on it with me." 
That night the youth and lady mingled lay 
In love and sleep — but when the morning came 
The lady found her lover dead and cold. 
Let none believe that God in mercy gave 
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew 

wild. 
But year by year lived on — in truth I think 
Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles. 
And that she did not die, but lived to tend 
Her aged father, were a kind of madness, 
If madness 'tis to be unlike the world. 
For but to see her were to read the tale 
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard 

hearts 
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief: — ■ 
Her eyelashes were torn away with tears. 
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead — so 

pale; 
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering 

veins 
And weak articulations might be seen 
Day's ruddy hght. The tomb of thy dead self 
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day, 
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee ! 

" Inheritor of more than earth can give. 
Passionless calm and silence unreproved. 
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep ! but rest, 
And are the uncomplaining things they seem, 
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love ; 
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were — Peace !" 
This was the only moan she ever made. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen among us; visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 

As summer winds that creep from flower to flower: 

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain 
It visits with inconstant glance [shower^ 

Each human heart and countenance ; 

Like hues and harmonies of evening. 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 

Like memory of music fled. 

Like aught that for its grace may be 

Dear, and yet dearer for its mysteiy. • 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where ai-t thou gone ] 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, 

This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate 1 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river; 

Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom ; why man hath such a scope 

For love and hate, despondency and hope ; 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given : 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and 
Heaven, 

Remain the records of their vain endeavour; 

Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail 
From all we hear and all we see, [to sever, 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 

Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains diiven, 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still mstrument, 

Or moonlight on a midnight stream. 

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart 

And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 

Man were immortal and omnipotent, 
Didst thou, unknown and awfiil as thou art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his 

Thou messenger of sympathies [heart. 

That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ; 
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 

Like darkness to a dying flame ! 

Depart not as thy shadow came : 

Depart not, lest the grave should be. 

Like life and fear, a dark reality. 
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 

Through many a listening chamber, cave, and 
ruin. 

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 

219 



220 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816. 



I called on poisonous names with which our youth 

I was not heard, I saw them not; [is fed : 

When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to bring 

News of birds and blossoming, 

Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstacy ! 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 

To thee and thine : have I not kept the vow 7 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even 

I call the phantoms of a thousand hours [now 

Each from his voiceless grave : they have in visioned 
Of studious zeal or love's delight [bowers 
Outwatched with me the envious night : 

They know that never joy illumed my brow, 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst fi'ee 
This world from its dark slavery, 
That thou, awful Loveliness, 

Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past : there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 

Which through the summer is not heard nor seen, 

As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 

Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm, to one who worships thee. 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, SpiniT fair, thy spells did bind 

To fear himself, and love all human kind. 



MONT BLANC. 

tlNES WRITTEN IN THE TALE OF CHAMOUNI. 



The everlasting universe of things 

Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, 

Nowdark — now glittering — nowreflecting gloom — 

Now lending splendour, where from secret springs 

The source of human thought its tribute brings^ 

Of waters, — with a sound but half its own. 

Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 

In the wild woods, among the mountains lone. 

Where waterfalls around it leap for ever. 

Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river 

Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 



Thus thou. Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ravine — 
Thou many-coloured, many-voiced vale. 
Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail 
Fast clouds, shadows, and sunbeams ; awful scene. 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down 
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, 
Bursting through these dark mountains like the 

flame 
Of lightning through the tempest : — thou dost lie, 
The giant brood of pines around thee clinging, 



Children of elder time, in whose devotion, 

The chainless winds still come and ever came 

To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging 

To hear — an old and solemn harmony : 

Thme earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep 

Of the etherial waterfall, whose veil 

Robes some unsculptured image ; the strange sleep 

Which, when the voices of the desert fail. 

Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; — • 

Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion 

A loud, lone sound, no other sound can tame ; 

Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, 

Thou art the path of that unresting sound — 

Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on thee, 

I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 

To muse on my own separate fantasy, 

My own, my human mind, which passively 

Now renders and receives fast influcncings, 

Holding an unremitting interchange 

With the clear universe of things around ; 

One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings 

Now float above thy darkness, and now rest 

Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, 

In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 

Seeking among the shadov^'s that pass by 

Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee. 

Some phantom, some faint image ; till the breast 

From which they fled recalls them, thou art there ! 



Some say that gleams of a remoter world 

Visit the soul in sleep, — 'that death is slumber. 

And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber 

Of those who wake and live. I look on high ; 

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled 

The veil of life and death 1 or do I lie 

In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep 

Speed far around and inaccessibly 

Its circles ? For the very spirit fails. 

Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep 

That vanishes among the viewless gales ! 

Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 

Mont Blanc appears, — still, sno'vvy, and serene — 

Its subject mountains their unearthly forms 

Pile around it, ice and rock ; broad vales between 

Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, 

Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 

And wind among the accumulated steeps; 

A desert peopled by the storms alone. 

Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, 

And the wolf tracks her there — how hideously 

Its shapes are heaped around ! rude, bare, and high. 

Ghastly, and scarred, and riven.' — Is this the scene 

Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her young 

Ruin 1 Were these her toys 1 or did a sea 

Of lire envelope once this silent snow ] 

None can reply — all seems eternal now. 

The wilderness has a mysterious tongue 

Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, 

So solemn, so serene, that man may be 

But for such faith with nature reconciled ; 

Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal 

Large codes of fraud and wo; not understood. 

By all, but which the wise, and great, and good, 

Interpret or make felt, or deeply feel. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 16. 



221 



The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, 

Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 

Within the dcedal earth ; lightning and rain, 

Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, 

The torpor of the year when feeble dreams 

Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 

Holds every future leaf and flower, — the bound 

With which from that detested trance they leap ; 

The works and ways of man their death and birth, 

And that of him, and all that his may be ; 

All things that move and breathe with toil and sound 

Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell. 

Power dwells apart in its tranquiUity, 

Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 

And this, the naked countenance of earth, 

On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains, 

Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, 

Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far 

fountains, 
Slowly rolling on ; there, many a precipice 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power 
Have piled — dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, 
A city of death distinct with many a tower 
And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
Is there, that fi-om the boundaries of the sky 
Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines are strewing 
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil [down 
Branchless and shattered stand ; the rocks, drawn 
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 
The limits of the dead and living world. 
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place 



Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil ; 
Their food and their retreat for ever gone, 
So much of life and joy is lost. The race 
Of man flies far in dread ; his work and dwelling 
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream. 
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves 
Shine in the rushing torrent's restless gleam. 
Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling 
Meet in the Vale, and one majestic River, 
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever 
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves. 
Breathes its swift vapours to the cii'cling air. 



Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : — the power is 
The still and solemn power of many sights [there, 
And many sounds, and much of life and death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, 
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds them there. 
Nor when th« flakes burn in the sinking sun, [tend 
Or the starbeamsdart through them : — Winds con- 
Silently there, and heap the snow, with breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of things, 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome 
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 
Switzerland, June 23, 1816. 



NOTE ON POEMS OF 1816. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



Shellet wrote little during this year. The 
Poem entitled the " Sunset" was written in the 
spring of the year, while still residing at Bishops- 
gate. He spent the summer on the shores of the 
Lake of Geneva. "The Hymn to Intellectual 
Beauty" was conceived during his voyage round 
the lake with Lord Byron. He occupied himself 
during this voyage, by reading the Nouvelle Heloh'se 
for the first time. The reading it on the very spot 
where the scenes are laid, added to the interest ; 
and he was at once surprised and charmed by the 
passionate eloquence and earnest enthralling in- 
terest that pervades this work. There was some- 
thing in the character of Saint-Preux, in his abne- 
gation of self, and in the worship he paid to Love, 
that coincided with Shelley's own disposition ; and, 
though difl(?ring in many of the views, and shocked 
by others, yet the efl:ect of the whole was fascinat- 
ing and dcHarhtful. 



" Mont Blanc" was inspired by a view of that 
mountain and its surrounding peaks and valleys, 
as he lingered on the Bridge of Arve on his way 
through the Valley of Chamouni. Shelley makes 
the following mention of this poem in his publica- 
tion of the History of Six Weeks' Tour, and Let- 
ters firom Switzerland : 

« The poem entitled ' Mont Blanc,' is written 
by the author of the two letters from Chamouni 
and Vevai. It was composed under the imme- 
diate impression of the deep and powerful feelings 
excited by the objects which it attempts to de- 
scribe ; and as an undisciplined overflowing of 
the soul, rests its claim to approbation on an 
attempt to imitate the untameable wildness and 
inaccessible solemnity from which those feeUngs 
sprang." 

This was an eventful year, and less time was 

T 2 



222 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 16. 



given to study than usual. In the hst of his read- 
ing I find, in Greek: Theocritus, the Prometheus 
of ^schylus, several of Plutarch's Lives, and the 
works of Lucian. In Latin: Lucretius, Phny's 
Letters, the Annals and Germany of Tacitus. In 
French: the History of the French Revolution, 
by La jrctelle. He read for the first time, this year, 
Montaigne's Essays, and regarded them ever after 



as one of the most delightful and instructive books 
in the .w^orld. The list is scanty in English works 
— Locke's Essay, Political Justice, and Coleridge's 
Lay Sermon, form nearly the whole. It was his 
frequent habit to read aloud to me in the evening ; 
in this way we read, this year, the New Testa- 
ment, Paradise Lost, Spenser's Fairy Queen, and 
Don Quixote. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXVIL 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



A FRAGMENT. 



There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, 
Had grown quite weak and gray before his time ; 
Nor any could the restless giiefs unravel 

Which burned within him, withering up his 

prime 
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. 
Not his the load of any secret crime, 

For nought of ill his heart could understand, 
But pity and wild sorrow for the same ; 
Not his the thirst for glory or command, 

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame ; 
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast, 
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame, 

Had left within his soul the dark unrest : 
Nor what religion fables of the grave 
Feared he, — Philosophy's accepted guest 

For none than he a purer heart could have, 

Or that loved good more for itself alone ; 

Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave. 

What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown. 
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind 1 — 
If with a human sadness he did groan, 

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind ; 
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed ; 
And such a glorious consolation find 

In others' joy, when all their own is dead : 
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief 
And yet, unlike all others, it is said 

That fi-om such toil he never found relief. 
Although a child of fortune and of power, 
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief. 

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower 
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate 
Apart fi-om men, as in a lonely tower, 

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate. — • 

Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse 

The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate 

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use 
To blind the world they famish for their pride ; 
IN or did he hold from any man his dues. 



But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, 
With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise, 
His riches and his cares he did divide. 

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise. 
What he dared do or think, though men might start. 
He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes ; 

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart. 
And to his many friends — all loved him well — 
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart, 

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell ; 
If not, he smiled or wept ; and his weak foes, 
He neither spurned nor hated — though with fell 

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose, 
They past like aimless arrows from his ear. — • 
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close 

To those, or them, or any, whom life's sphere 
May comprehend within its wide array. 
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere 1 

He knew not. Though his life day after day, 
Was failing, like an unreplenished stream, 
Though in his eyes a cloud and burden lay, 

Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam 
Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds. 
Shone, softly burning ; though his hps did seem 

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods ; 
And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour, 
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes, 

Were driven within him by some secret power, 
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar, 
Like lights and sounds, fi'om haunted tower to tower, 

O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war 

Is levied by the night-contending winds. 

And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear ; — 

Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends 
Which wake and feed on overliving wo, — 
What was tliis grief, which ne'er in other minds 

A mirror found, — he knew not — none could know ; 
But on whoe'er might question him he turned 
The light of his frank eyes, as if to show 

He knew not of the grief within that burned. 
But asked forbearance with a mournful look; 
Or spoke in words from which none ever learned 

The cause of his disquietude ; or shook 

With spasms of silent passion ; or turned pale : 

So that his friends soon rarely undertook 

223 



224 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817. 



To stir his secret pain without avail ; — ■ 

For all who knew and loved him then perceived 

That there was drawn an adamantine veil 

Between his heart and mind, — ^both unrelieved 
Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. 
Some said that he was mad, others believed 

That memories of an antenatal life 

Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell : 

And others said that such mysterious grief 

From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell 
On souls like his, which owned no higher law 
Than lave ; love calm, steadfast invincible 

By mortal fear or supernatural awe ; 

And others, — " 'Tis the shadow of a dream 

Which the veiled eye of memory never saw 

« But through the soul's abyss, like some dark 
stream 

Through shattered mines and caverns under- 
ground 

Rolls, shaking its foundations ; and no beam 



"Of 



but it is quenched and 



joy may rise, 
drowned 
In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure. 
Soon its exhausted waters will have found 

« A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, 
O Athanase ! — in one so good and great, 
Evil or tumult cannot long endure." 

So spake they : idly of another's state 
Babbling vain words and fond philosophy : 
This was their consolation ; such debate 

Men held with one another ; nor did he. 
Like one who labours with a human wo, 
Decline this talk ; as if its theme might be 

Another, not himself, he to and fro 
Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit ; 
And none but those who loved him best could 
know 

That which he knew not, how it galled and bit 
His weary mind, this converse vain and cold ; 
For like an eyeless nightmare giief did sit 

Upon his being ; a snake which fold by fold 
Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend 
Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier 

hold ;— 
And so his grief remained — let it remain — untold.* 



FRAGMENTS* 



* The Autlior was pursuins; a fuller developement of 
the ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him 
that in an attempt at extreme refinement and analysis, 
his conceptions might be betrayed into the assuming a 
morbid character. The reader will judee whether he 
is a loser or gainer by this diflerence. — Author's J^Tote. 



OF PRINCE ATHANASE. 

PART II. 



FRAGMENT I. 

PnijfCE Atraxase had one beloved friend, 

An old, old man, with hair of silver white, [blend 

And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and 

With his wise words ; and eyes whose an-owy light 
Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. 
He was the last whom superstition's blight 

Had spared in Greece — the blight that cramps and 

blinds, — 
And in his ohve bower at OEnoe 
Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds 

A fertile island in the barren sea. 

One mariner who has survived his mates 

Many a drear month in a great ship — ^so he 

With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates 

Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being : 

" The mind becomes that which it contemplates," — 

And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing 
Their bright creations, grew like wisest men; 
And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing 

A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, 

O sacred Hellas ! many weary years 

He wandered, till the path of Laian's glen 

Was grass-grown — and the unremembercd tears 
Were dry in Laian for their honoured chief, 
Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears: — 

And as the lady looked with faithful grief 
From her high lattice o'er the rugged path. 
Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief 

And blighting hope, who with the news of death 
Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight. 
She saw beneath the chestnuts, far beneath, 

* The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase 
was a good deal modelled on Alastor. In the first 
sketch of the Poem he named it Pandemos and Urania. 
Athanase seeks through the world the One whom he 
may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is em- 
barked, a lady, who appears to him to euibody his ideal 
of love and beauty. But she proves to be Pandemos, 
or the earthly and unworthy Venus, who, after disap- 
pointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. 
Athanase, crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. " On his 
deathbed the lady, who can really reply to his soul, 
comes and kisses his lips," — The Deathbed of Athanase, 
The poet describes her — 
Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were brown, 
And in their dark and liquid moisture swam, 
Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon ; 
Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came 
The light from them, as when tears of delight 
Double the western planet's serene frame. 
This slender note is all we have to aid our imagination 
in shaping out the form of the poem, such as its author 
imaged. — M. S. 



PRINCE ATHANASE. 



225 



An old man toiling up, a weary wight ; 

And soon witliin her hospitable hall 

She saw his white hairs glittering in the light 

Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall, 
And his wan visage and his withered mien, 
Yet calm and gentle and majestical. 

And Athanase, her child, who must have been 
Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed 
In patient silence. 



FRAGMENT II. 

Such was Zonoras ; and as daylight finds 
X)ne amaranth glittering on the path of frost. 
When autumn nights have nipt all weaker kinds, 

Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tost. 
Shone truth upon Zonoras ; and he filled 
From fountains pure, nigh overgro^via and lost, 

The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, 
With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore 
And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild. 

And sweet and subtle talk now evermore, 
The pupil and the master shared ; until, 
Sharing that undiminishable store, 

The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill 
Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran 
His teacher, and did teach vsdth native skill 

Strange truths and new to that experienced man. 
Still they were friends, as few have ever been 
Who mark the extremes of Ufa's discordant span. 

So in the caverns of the forest green, 
Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, 
Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen 

By summer woodmen ; and when winter's roar 
Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war. 
The Balearic fisher, driven firom shore. 

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar. 

Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam. 

Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star 

Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, 
Whilst all the constellations of the sky [seem — 
Seemed reeling through the storm ; they did but 

For, lo ! the wdntry clouds are all gone by, 

And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, 

And far o'er southern waves, immovably 

Belted Orion hangs — ^warm light is flowing 
From the young moon into the sunset's chasm. — 
" O smnmer eve ! with power divine, bestowing 

" On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm 
Which overflows in notes of Uquid gladness. 
Filling the sky like light ! How many a spasm 
.29 



« Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and mad- 
Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale ! [ness. 
And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, 

" And the far siglungs of yon piny dale 
Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here. — 
I bear alone what nothing may avail 

" To lighten — a strange load !"■ — No human ear 
Heard this lament ; but o'er the visage wan 
Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere 

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran, 
Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, 
Glassy and dark. — And that di\'ine old man 


Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, 
Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest — 
And with a calm and measured voice he spake. 

And, with a soft and equal pressure, prest 

That cold lean hand : — " Dost thou remember yet 

When the curved moon then lingering in the west 

" Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet. 
How in those beams we walked, half resting on 

the sea 1 
'Tis just one year — ^sure thou dost not forget— 

" Then Plato's words of light in thee and me 
Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east. 
For we had just then read — thy memory 

" Is faithful now — the story of the feast ; 

And Agathon and Diotima seemed 

From death and dark forgetfulness released." 



FRAGMENT III. 

'TwAS at the season when the Earth upsprings 
From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, 
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wirgs, 

Stands up before its mother bright and mild. 
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems — 
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled 

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, 
The fi-esh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove 
Waxed green— ^and flowers burst forth like starry 
beams ; — 

The grass in the warm sun did start and move. 
And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene : — 
How many a one, though none be near to love. 

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen 
In any mirror — or the spring's young minions, 
The winged leaves amid the copses green ; — 

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions 
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, 
And his own steps — and over wide dominions 



226 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 17. 



Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, 
More fleet thtin storms — the wide world shrinks 
When winter and despondency are past, [below, 

'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase 
Pass'd the white Alps — those eagle-baffling moun- 
tains 
Slept in their shrouds of snow ; — ^beside the ways 

The waterfalls were voiceless — for their fountains 
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now. 
Or by the curdling winds — whose brazen wings. 

Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow. 
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung 
And filled with frozen light the chasm below. 



FRAGMENT IV. 

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
We can desire, O Love ! and happy souls, 
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, 

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls 
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew ; 
Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls 

Investest it ; and when the heavens are blue 
Thou fillest them ; and when the earth is fair, 
The shadow of thy moving wings imbue 

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear 
Beauty like some bright robe ; — thou ever soarest 
Among the towers of men, and as soft air 

In spring, which moves the unawakened forest. 
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, 
Thou floatest among men ; and aye implorest 

That which from thee they should implore : — the 

weak 
Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts 
The strong have broken — ^yet where shall any seek 

A garment whom thou clothest not ] 
Marlow, 1817. 



MARIANNE'S DREAM. 



A PALE dream came to a Lady fair. 
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray ! 

I know the secrets of the air, 

And things are lost in the glare of day, 

Which I can make the sleeping see, 

If they will put their trust in me. 

And thou shalt know of things unknown, 
If thou wilt let me rest between 

The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown 
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen : 

And half in hope, and half in fright, 

The Lady closed her eyes so bright. 



At first all deadly shapes were driven 

Tumultuously across her sleep. 
And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven 

All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep ; 
And the Lady ever looked to spy 
If the gold sun shone forth on high. 

And as towards the east she turned. 

She saw aloft in the morning air, 
Which now with hues of sunrise burned, 

A great black Anchor rising there ; 
And wherever the Lady turned her eyes 
It hung before her in the skies. 

The sky was blue as the summer sea. 
The depths were cloudless over head. 

The air was calm as it could be. 

There was no sight or sound of dread, 

But that black Anchor floating still 

Over the piny eastern hill. 

The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear. 

To see that Anchor ever hanging. 
And veiled her eyes ; she then did hear 

The sound as of a dim low clanging, 
And looked abroad if she might know 
Was it aught else, or but the flow 
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fi-o. 

There was a mist in the sunless air, 

Which shook as it were with an earthquake's 
But the very weeds that blossomed there [shock, 

Were moveless, and each mighty rock 
Stood on its basis steadfastly ; 
The Anchor was seen no more on high. 

But piled around with summits hid 

In lines of cloud at intervals. 
Stood many a mountain pyramid 

Among whose everlasting walls 
Two mighty cities shone, and ever 
Through the red mist their domes did quiver. 

QjU,two^dread mountains, from whose crest, 
Might seem, the eagTeTor her brood 

Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest 
Those tower-encircled cities stood. 

A vision strange such towers to see, 

Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, 

Where human art could never be. 

And columns framed of marble white, 

And giant fanes, dome over dome 
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright 

With workmanship, which could not come 
From touch of mortal instrument. 
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent 
From its own shapes magnificent. 

But still the Lady heard that clang 

Filling the vdde air far away ; 
And still the mist whose light did hang 

Among the mountains shook alway, 
So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 
As half in joy and half aghast. 
On those high domes her look she cast. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



227 



Sudden from out that city sprung 

A light that made the earth grow red ; 

Two flames that each with quivering tongue 
Licked its high domes, and overhead 

Among those mighty towers and fanes 

Dropped fire, as a volcano rains 

Its sulphurous rum on the plains. 

And hark ! a rush, as if the deep 

Had burst its bonds ; she looked behind 

And saw over the western steep 
A raging flood descend, and wind 

Through that wide vale : she felt no fear, 
But said within herself, 'Tis clear 

These towers are Nature's own, and she 

To save them has sent forth the sea. 

And now those raging billows came 

Where that fair Lady sate, and she 
Was borne towards the showering flame 

By the wild waves heaped tumultuously, 
And, on a little plank, the flow 
Of the wMrlpool bore her to and fro. 

The waves were fiercely vomited 

From every tower and every dome, 
And dreary light did widely shed 

O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, 
Beneath the smoke which hung its night 
On the stained cope of heaven's light. 

The plank whereon that Lady sate 

Was driven through the chasms, about and about, 
Between the peaks so desolate 

Of the drowning mountain, in and out, 
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails — 
While the flood was fiUing those hollow vales. 

At last her plank an eddy crost. 

And bore her to the city's wall. 
Which now the flood had reached almost ; 

It might the stoutest heart appal 
To hear the fire roar and hiss 
Through the domes of those mighty palaces. 

The eddy whirled her round and round 

Before a gorgeous gate, which stood 
Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound 

Its aery arch with light like blood ; 
She looked on that gate of marble clear 
With wonder that extinguished fear : 

For it was filled with sculptures rarest, 
Of forms most beautiful and strange. 

Like nothing human, but the fairest 
Of winged shapes, whose legions range 

Throughout the sleep of those who are, 

Like this same Lady, good and fair. 

And as she looked, still lovelier grew 
Those marble forms ; — the sculptor sure 

Was a strong spirit, and the hue 
Of his own mind did there endure 

A fter the touch, whose power had braided 

Such grace, was in some sad change faded. | 



She looked, the flames were dim, the flood 
Grew tranquil as a woodland river 

Winding through hills in solitude ; 

Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver, 

And their fair limbs to float in motion, 

Like weeds unfolding in the ocean. 

And their lips moved ; one seemed to speak, 
When suddenly the mountain crackt. 

And through the chasm the floor did break 
W^ith an earth-uplifting cataract : 

The statues gave a joyous scream. 

And on its wings the pale thin dream 

Lifted the Lady from the stream. 

The dizzy flight of that phantom pale 
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep. 

And she arose, while from the veil 

Of her dark eyes the dream did creep ; 

And she walked about as one who knew 

That sleep has sights as clear and true 

As any waking eyes can view. 
Marlow, 1817. 



TO CONSTANTIA 

SINGIIfG. 



Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die. 

Perchance were death indeed! — Constantia, 
turn ! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie. 

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, 
which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; [is yet. 

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, 

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget ! 
A breathless awe, like the swift change 

Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers. 
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, 

Thou breathest now in fast ascendiiig numbers. 
The cope of heaven seems rf nt and cloven 

By the enchantment of thy strain, 
And on my shoulders wings are woven. 

To follow its sublime career. 
Beyond the mighty moons that wane 

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, 

Till the world's shadowy walls are past and 
disappear. 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, 

The blood and life within those snowy fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. 

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 
The blood is listening in my frame, 

And thronging shadows, fast and tliick, 
Fall on my overflowing eyes ; 

My heart is quivermg lilce a flame ; 

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. 



228 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 17, 



I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, 

Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song 
Flows on, and fills all things with melody. — ■ 

Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong. 
On which, hke one in trance upborne. 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, 
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. 

Now 'tis the breath of summer night, 
Which, when the starry waters sleep. 

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 
bright, 

Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous 
flight. 



TO CONSTANTIA. 



The rose that drinks the fountain dew 

In the pleasant air of noon. 
Grows pale and blue with altered hue — 

In the gaze of the nightly moon ; 
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright, 
Makes it wan with her borrowed hght. 

Such is my heart — roses are fair, 

And that at best a withered blossom ; 

But thy false care did idly wear 

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ! 

And fed vnth love, like air and dew 

Its growth 



DEATH. 



Thet die — the dead return not — Misery 

Sits near an open grave and calls them over, 
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye — 

They are names of kindred, friend and lover, 
Which he so feebly calls — they all are gone ! 
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone. 
This most familiar scene, my pain — 
These tombs alone remain. 

Misery, my sweetest friend — ^oh ! weep no more ! 

Thou wilt not be consoled — I wonder not ! 
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door 

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot 
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory, 
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary ; 
This most familiar scene, my pain 
These tombs alone remain. 



SONNET.— OZYMANDIAS. 



I MET a traveller from an antique land 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold commands 



Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. 
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; 
And on the pedestal these words appear : 
" My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair !" 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



ON F. G. 

Her voice did quiver as we parted. 

Yet knew I not that heart was broken 
From which it came, and I departed 
Heeding not the words then spoken. 
Misery — O Misery, 
This world is all too wide for thee. 



LINES TO A CRITIC. 

HoxET from silkworms who can gather, 
Or silk from the yellow bee 1 

The grass may grow in winter weather 
As soon as hate in me. 

Hate men who cant and men who pray, 
And men who rail lilce thee ; 

An equal passion to repay 
They are not coy hke me. 

Or seek some slave of power and gold, 
To be thy dear heart's mate ; 

Thy love will move that bigot cold, 
Sooner than me thy hate. 

A passion like the one I prove, 

Cannot divided be ; 
I hate thy want of truth and love — 

How sliould I then hate thee 1 

December, 1817. 



LINES. 



:hast, 



That time is dead for ever, child. 
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever ! 

We look on the past. 

And stare aghast 
At the spectres wailing, pale, and 
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled 

To death on life's dark river. 

The stream we gazed on then rolled by ; 
Its waves are unreturning ; 

But we yet stand 

In a lone land. 
Like tombs to mark the memory 
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee 

In the light of life's dim morning. 
J^foveniber 5th, 1817. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 17. 



229 



NOTE ON POEMS OF 1817. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



The very illness that oppressed, and the aspect 
of death which had approached so near Shelley, 
appears to have kindled to yet keener life the Spirit 
of Poetry in his heart. The restless thoughts kept 
awake by pain clothed themselves in verse. Much 
was composed during this year. The " Revolt of 
Islam," written and printed, was a great effort — 
" Rosalind and Helen" was begun — and the frag- 
ments and poems I can trace to the same period, 
show how full of passion and reflection were his 
solitary hours. 

In addition to such poems as have an intelligible 
aim and shape, many a stray idea and transitory 
emotion found imperfect and abrupt expression, 
and then again lost themselves in silence. As he 
never wandered without a book, and without im- 
plements of writing, I find many such in his manu- 
script books, that scarcely bear record ; while some 
of them, broken and vague as they are, will appear 
valuable to those who love Shelley's mind, and 
desire to trace its workings. Thus in the same 
book that addresses « Constantia, Singing," I find 
these lines : 

My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim 
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing, 

Far away into the regions dim 
Of rapture — as a boat with swift sails winging 
Its way adown some many-winding river. 

And this apostrophe to Music: 

No, Music, thou art not the God of Love, 
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self, 
Till it becomes all music murmurs of. 

In another fragment he calls it 

The silver key of the fountain of tears. 

Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild ; 

Softest grave of a thousand fears, 
Where their mother. Care, like a drowsy child. 
Is laid asleep in flowers. 

And then again this melancholy trace of the sad 
thronging thoughts, which were the well whence 
he drew the idea of Athanase, and express the rest- 
less, passion-fraught emotions of one whose sensi- 
bility, kindled to too intense a life, perpetually 
preyed upon itself: 

To thirst and find no fill — to wail and wander 
With short unsteady steps — to pause and ponder — 
To feel the blood run through the veins and tingle 
Where busy thought and blind sensation mingle ; 
To nurse the image of unfelt caresses 
Till dim imagination just possesses 
The half-created shadow. 



In the next page I find a calmer sentiment, better 
fitted to sustain one whose whole being was love : 

Wealth and dominion fade into the mass 
Of the great sea of human right and wrong, 
When once from our possession they must pass; 
But love, though misdirected, is among 
The things which are immortal, and surpass 
All that frail stuff which will be — or which was. 

In another book, which contains some passionate 
outbreaks with regard to the great injustice that 
he endured this year, the poet writes : 

My thoughts arise and fade in solitude, 
The verse that would invest them melts away 
Like moonlight in the heaven of spreading day : 
flow beautiful they were, how firm they stood. 
Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl ! 

He had this year also projected a poem on the sub- 
ject of Otho, inspired by the pages of Tacitus. I 
find one or two stanzas only, which were to open 
the subject: 

OTHO. 

Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, 
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim 
From Brutus his own glory — and on thee 
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame ; 
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail, 
Amid his cowering senate with thy name. 
Though thou and he were great — it will avail 
To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail. 

'Twill wrong thee not— thou wouldst, if thou couldst 

feel, 
Abjure such envious fame — great Otho died 
Like thee — he sanctified his country's steel, 
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, 
In his own blood — a deed it was to buy 
Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride, 
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, 
That will not be refused its offering. 

I insert here also the fragment of a song, though 
I do not know the date when it was written, — but 
it was early : 

TO '-. 

Yet look on me — take not thine eyes away. 
Which feed upon the love within mine own, 

Which is indeed but the reflected ray 
Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown. 

Yet speak to me — thy voice is as the tone 

Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear 
That thou yet lovesl me ; yet thou alone 

Like one before a mirror, without care 
Of ausht but thine own features, imaged there ; 

And yet I wear out life in watching thee ; 
A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed 

Art kind when I am sick, and pitv me. 
U 



230 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1817. 



He projected also translating the Hymns of 
Homer ; his version of several of the shorter ones 
remain, as well as that to Mercury, already pub- 
lished in the Posthumous Poems. His readings 
this year were chiefly Greek. Besides the Hymns 
of Homer and the Iliad, he read the Dramas of 
^^schylus and Sophocles, the Symposium of Plato, 
and Arrian's Historia Indica. In Latin, Apuleius 
alone is named. In English, the Bible w^as his 
constant study ; he read a great portion of it aloud 
in the evening. Among these evening readings, I 
find also mentioned the Fairy Queen, and other 
modern works, the production of his contempora- 
ries, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Moore, and Byron. 

His life was now spent more in thought than 
action — he had lost the eager spirit which believed 
it could achieve what it projected for the benefit 
of mankind. And yet in the converse of daily life 
Shelley was far from being a melancholy man. 
He was eloquent when philosophy, or politics, or 
taste, were the subjects of conversation. He was 



playfiil — and indulged in the wild spirit that mocked 
itself and others — not in bitterness, but in sport. 
The author of " Nightmare Abbey" seized on some 
points of his character and some habits of his life 
when he painted Scythrop. He was not addicted 
to " port or madeira," but in youth he had read of 
" Illuminati and Eleutherachs," and believed 
that he possessed the power of operating an imme- 
diate change in the minds of men and the state of 
society. These wild dreams had faded; son-ow 
and adversity had struck home ; but he struggled 
with despondency as he did with physical pain. 
There are few who remember him saiHng paper 
boats, and watching the navigation of his tiny craft 
with eagerness — or repeating with wild energy the 
" Ancient Mariner," and Southey's " Old Woman 
of Berkeley," — but those who do, will recollect 
that it was in such, and in the creations of his 
own fancy, when that was most daring and ideal, 
that he sheltered himself fi-om the storms and dis- 
appointments, the pain and sorrow, that beset his 
life. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXYIII. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 

ROSALIND AKB HELEN, AND LINES WEITTEN 

AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



The story of Rosalind and Helen is, un- 
doubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style of 
poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite pro- 
found meditation ; and if, by interesting the afiec- 
tions and amusing the imagination, it awaken a 
certain ideal melancholy favourable to the recep- 
tion of more important impressions, it will produce 
in the reader all that the writer experienced in the 
composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the 
impulse of the feelings wliich moulded the con- 
ception of the story ; and this impulse determined 
the pauses of a measure, which only pretends to 
be regular, inasmuch as it corresponds with, and 
expresses, the irregularity of the imaginations 
which inspired it. 



I do not know which of the few scattered 
poems I left in England will be selected by my 
bookseller to add to this collection. One, which I 
sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion 
among those lovely mountains which surround 
what was once the retreat, and where is now the 
sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to 
condemn the insertion of the introductory Unes, 
which image forth the sudden relief of a state of 
deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed 
by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, 
on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, 
I can only offer as my excuse, that they were not 
erased at the request of a dear friend, with whom 
added years of intercourse only add to my appre- 
hension of its value, and who would have had 
more right than any one to complain, that she has 
not been able to extinguish in me the very power 
of delineating sadness. 

Naples, Dec. 20, 1818. 



SCENE.— TAe Shore of the Lake of Como. 
Rosalind, Helen, ajid her child. 



Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 

'Tis long since thou and I have met : 

And yet raethinks it were unkind 

Those moments to forget. 

Come, sit by me. I see thee stand 

By this lone lake, in this far land, 

Thy loose hair in the light wind flying, 

Thy sweet voice to each tone of even 

United, and thine eyes replying 

To the hues of 3'on fair heaven. 

Come, gentle friend ! wilt sit by me 1 

And be as thou wert wont to be 

Ere we were disunited 1 

None doth behold us now: the power 

That led us forth at this lone hour 

Will be but ill requited 

If thou depart in scorn ; oh ! come, 

And talk of our abandoned home. 

Remember this is Italy, 

And we are exiles. Talk with me 

Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, 

Barren and dark although they be. 

Were dearer than these chestnut woods ; 



Those heathy paths, that inland stream. 
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem 
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream : 
Which that we have abandoned now, 
Weighs on the heart like that remorse 
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek 
No more ourj^outhful intercourse. 
That cannot be ! Rosalind, speak, [come. 

Speak to me. Leave me not. — When morn did 
W^hen evening fell upon our common home. 
When for one hour we parted, — do not frown ; 
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken : 
But turn to me. Oh ! by this cherished token 
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, 
Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me. 
And not my scorned self who prayed to thee. 

nOSALIND. 

Is it a dream, or do I see 

And hear frail Helen? I would flee 

Thy tainting touch; but former years 

Arise, and bring forbidden tears ; 

And my o'erburdcned memory 

Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. 

I share thy crime. I cannot choose 

But weep for thee : mine own strange grief 

But seldom stoops to such relief; 



232 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



Nor ever did I love thee less, 
Though mourning o'er thy wickedness 
Even with a sister's wo. I knew 
What to the evil world is due, 
And therefore sternly did refuse 
To link me with the infamy 
Of one so lost as Helen. Now 
Bewildered by my dire despair, 
Wondering I blush and weep that thou 
Shouldst love me still, — thou only ! — There, 
Let us sit on that gray stone, 
Till our mournful talk be done. 

HELEN. 

Alas ! not there ; I cannot bear 

The murmur of this lake to hear. 

A sound from thee, Rosalind dear. 

Which never yet I heard elsewhere 

But in our native land, recurs, 

Even here where now we meet. It stirs 

Too much of suffocating sorrow ! 

In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood 

Is a stone seat, a solitude 

Less like our own. The ghost of peace 

Will not desert this spot. To-morrow 

If thy kind feelings should not cease, 

We may sit here. 

ROSALIXn. 

Thou lead, my sweet, 
And I will follow. 

HENRY. 

'Tis Fenici's seat 
Where you are going. This is not the way, 
Mamma ; it leads beyond those trees that grow 
Close to the little river. 

HELEN. 

Yes ; I know ; 
I was bewildered. Kiss mc, and be gay, 
Dear boy, why do you sob 1 

HENRT. 

I do not know : 
But it might break any one's heart to see 
You and the lady cry so bitterly. 

HELEN. 

It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, 
Henry, and play with Lilla till I come. 
We only cried with joy to see each other ; 
We are quite merry now — Good night. 

The boy 
Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, 
And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy 
Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the glee 
Of light and unsuspecting infancy, 
And whispered in her ear, " Bring home with you 
That sweet, strange lady-friend." Then off he flew, 
But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile. 
Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while. 
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. 

In silence then they took the way 
Beneath the forest's solitude. 
It was a vast and antique wood, 
Through which they took their way ; 



And the gray shades of evening 

O'er that green wilderness did fling 

Still deeper solitude. 

Pursuing still the path that wound 

The vast and knotted trees around, 

Through which slow shades were wandering, 

To a deep lawny dell they came. 

To a stone seat beside a spring, 

O'er which the columned wood did frame 

A roofless temple, like the fane 

Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, 

Man's early race once knelt beneath 

The overhanging deity. 

O'er this fair fountain hung the sky. 

Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, 

The pale snake, that with eager breath 

Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake. 

Is beaming with many a mingled hue. 

Shed from yon dome's eternal blue. 

When he floats on that dark and lucid flood 

In the light of his own loveliness ; 

And the birds that in the fountain dip 

Their plumes with fearless fellowship 

Above and round hifi wheel and hover. 

The fitful wind is heard to stir 

One solitary leaf pn high; 

The chirping of the grasshopper 

Fills every pause. There is emotion 

In all that dwells at noontide here : 

Then, through the intricate wild wood, 

A maze of life and light and motion 

Is woven. But there is stillness now ; 

Gloom, and the trance of Nature now : 

The snake is in his cave asleep ; 

The birds are on the branches dreaming ; 

Only the shadows creep ; 

Only the glowworm is gleaming ; 

Only the owls and the nightingales 

Wake in this dell when daylight fails. 

And gray shades gather in the woods ; 

And the owls have all fled far away 

In a merrier glen to hoot and play, 

For the moon is veiled and sleeping now. 

The accustomed nightingale still broods 

On her accustomed bough, 

But she is mute ; for her false mate 

Has fled and lefl; her desolate. 

This silent spot tradition old 

Had peopled with the spectral dead. 

For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold 

And stiir, as with tremulous lips he told 

That a hellish shape at midnight led 

The ghost of a youth with hoary hair, 

And sate on the seat beside him there. 

Till a naked child came wandering by, 

When the fiend would change to a lady fair ! 

A fearful tale ! The truth was worse : 

For here a sister and a brother 

Had solemnized a monstrous curse. 

Meeting in this fair solitude : 

For beneath yon very sky. 

Had they resigned to one another 

Body and soul. The muhitude, 

Tracking them to the secret wood, 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



233 



Tore limb from limb their innocent child, 
And stabbed and trampled on its mother ; 
But the youth, for God's most holy grace, 
A priest saved to burn in the market-place. 

Duly at evening Helen came 

To this lone silent spot, 

From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow 

So much of sympathy to borrow 

As soothed her own dark lot. 

Duly each evening from her home, 

With her fair child would Helen come 

To sit upon that antique seat, 

While the hues of day were pale ; 

And the bright boy beside her feet 

Now lay, lifting at intervals 

His broad blue eyes on her; 

Now, where some sudden impulse calls, 

Following. He was a gentle boy, 

And in all gentle sports took joy; 

Oft in a dry leaf for a boat, 

With a small feather for a sail. 

His fancy on that spring would float, 

If some invisible breeze might stir 

Its marble calm : and Helen smiled 

Through tears of awe on the gay child, 

To think that a boy as fair as he, 

In years which never more may be, 

By that same fount, in that same wood. 

The like sweet fancies had pursued ; 

And that a mother, lost like her, 

Had mournfully sate watching him. 

Then all the scene was wont to swim 

Through the mist of a burning tear. 

For many months had Helen known 

This scene ; and now she tliither tm-ned 

Her footsteps, not alone. 

The friend whose falsehood she had mourned, 

Sate with her on that seat of stone. 

Silent they sate ; for evening. 

And the power its glimpses bring, 

Had, with one awful shadow, quelled 

The passion of their grief. They sate 

With linked hands, for unrepelled 

Had Helen taken Rosaluid's. 

Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds 

The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair. 

Which is twined in the sultry summer air 

Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre. 

Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet. 

And the sound of her heart that ever beat, 

As with sighs and words she breathed on her, 

Unbind the knots of her friend's despair. 

Till her thoughts were free to float and flow ; 

And from her labouring bosom now. 

Like the bursting of a prisoned flame. 

The voice of a long-pent son-ow came. 



I saw the dark earth fill upon 
The coffin ; and I saw the stone 
Laid over him whom this cold breast 
Had pillowed to his nightly rest ! 



Thou knowest not, thou canst not know 

My agony. Oh ! I could not weep : 

The sources whence such blessings flow 

Were not to be approached by me ! 

But I could smile, and I could sleep, 

Though with a self-accusing heart, 

In morning's light, in evening's gloom, 

I watched, — and would not thence depart, — 

My husband's unlamented tomb. 

My children knew their sire was gone. 

But when I told them, " he is dead," 

They laughed aloud in frantic glee. 

They clapped their hands and leaped about, 

Answering each other's ecstacy 

With many a prank and meriy shout ; 

But I sat silent and alone. 

Wrapped in the mock of mourning weed. 

They laughed, for he was dead ; but I 
Sate with a hard and tearless eye. 
And with a heart which would deny 
The secret joy it could not quell. 
Low muttering o'er his loathed name ; 
Till from that self-contention came 
Remorse where sin was none ; a hell 
Which in pure spirits should not dwell. 

I'll tell thee truth. He was a man 

Hard, selfish, loving only gold. 

Yet full of guile : his pale eyes ran 

With tears, which each some falsehood told, 

And oft his smooth and bridled tongue 

Would give the lie to his flushing cheek : 

He was a coward to the strong ; 

He was a tyrant to the weak. 

On whom his vengeance he would wreak : 

For scorn, whose arrows search the heart, 

From many a stranger's eye would dart. 

And on his memoiy cling, and follow 

His soul to its home so cold and hollow. 

He was a tyrant to the weak. 

And we were such, alas the day ! 

Oft, when my little ones at play. 

Were in youth's natural lightness gay, 

Or if they listened to some tale 

Of travellers, or of faiiy land, — 

When the light from the wood-fire's dying brand 

Flashed on their faces, — if they heard 

Or thought they heard upon the stair 

His footstep, the suspended word 

Died on my lips : we all grew pale ; 

The babe at my bosom was hushed vdth fear 

If it thought it heard its father near ; 

And my two wild boys would near my knee 

Cling, cowed and cowering fearfully. 

I'll tell the truth : I loved another. 
His name in my ear was ever ringing. 
His form to my brain was ever clinging ; 
Yet if some stranger breathed that name. 
My lips turned white, and my heart beat fast : 
My nights were once haunted by dreams of flame, 
My days were dim in the shadow cast, 
By the memory of the same ! 
Day and night, day and night, 
He was my breath and life and light. 
For three short years, which soon were past. 
11 2 



234 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



On the fourth, my gentle mother 

Led me to the shrine, to be 

His sworn bride eternally. 

And now we stood on the altar stair, 

When my father came from a distant land, 

And with^a loud and fearful cry. 

Rushed between us suddenly. 

I saw the stream of his thin gray hair, 

I saw his lean and lifted hand, 

And heard his words, — and live ! O God ! 

Wherefore do I live ]— " Hold, hold !" 

He cried, — " I tell thee 'tis her brother ! 

Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod 

Of yon churchyard rests in her shroud so cold. 

I am now weak, and pale, and old : 

We were once dear to one another, 

I and that corpse ! Thou art our child !" 

Then with a laugh both long and wild 

The youth upon the pavement fell : 

They found him dead ! All looked on me. 

The spasms of my despair to see ; 

But I was calm. I went away; 

I was clammy-cold like clay ! 

I did not weep — I did not speak ; 

But day by day, week after week, 

I walked about like a corpse alive ! 

Alas ! sweet friend, you must believe 

This heart is stone — it did not break. 

My father lived a little while. 

But all might see that he was dying, 

He smiled with such a woful smile ! 

When he was in the churchyard lying 

Among the worms, we grew quite poor. 

So that no one would give us bread ; 

My mother looked at me, and said 

Faint words of cheer, which only meant 

That she could die and be content; 

So I went forth from the same church door 

To another husband's bed. 

And this was he who died at last. 

When weeks and months and years had past. 

Through which I firmly did fulfil 

My duties, a devoted wife, 

With the stern step of vanquished will. 

Walking beneath the night of life. 

Whose hours extinguished, like slow rain 

Falling for ever, pain by pain. 

The very hope of death's dear rest ; 

Which, since the heart within my breast 

Of natural life was dispossest, 

Its strange sustainer there had been. 

When Howers were dead, and grass was green 
Upon my mother's grave, — that mother 
Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make 
My wan eyes glitter for her sake. 
Was my vowed task, the single care 
Which once gave life to my despair,— 
When she was a thing that did not stir. 
And the crawlmg worms were cradling her 
To a sleep more deep and so more sweet 
Than a baby's rocked on its nurse's knee, 
I lived ; a living pulse then beat 
Beneath my heart that awakened me. 
What was this pulse so warm and free 1 



Alas ! I knew it could not be 

My own dull blood : 'twas like a thought 

Of liquid love, that spread and wrought 

Under my bosom and in my brain. 

And crept with the blood through every vein ; 

And hour by hour, day after day, 

The wonder could not charm away, 

But laid in sleep my wakeful pain. 

Until I knew it was a child. 

And then I wept. For long, long years 

These frozen eyes had shed no tears : 

But now — 'twas the season fair and mild 

When April has wept itself to May : 

I sate through the sweet sunny day 

By my window bowered round with leaves, 

And down my cheeks the quick tears ran 

Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves. 

When wants spring showers are passing o'er; 

Helen, none can ever tell 

The joy it was to weep once more ! 

1 wept to think how hard it were 
To kill my babe, and take from it 
The sense of light, and the warm air. 
And my own fond and tender care, 
And love and smiles ; ere I knew yet 
That those for it might, as for me, 
Be the masks of a grinning mockery. 
And haply, I would dream, 'twere sweet 
To feed it from my faded breast. 

Or mark my own heart's restless beat 

Rock it to its untroubled rest ; 

And watch the growing soul beneath 

Dawn in faint smiles ; and hear its breath. 

Half interrupted by calm sighs ; 

And search the depth of its fair eyes 

For long departed memories ! 

And so I lived till that sweet load 

Was lightened. Darkly forward flowed 

The stream of years, and on it bore 

Two shapes of gladness to my sight ; 

Two other babes, dehghtful more 

In my lost soul's abandoned night, 

Than their own country ships may be 

Sailing towai'ds wrecked mariners. 

Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea. 

For each, as it came, brought soothing tears. 

And a loosening warmth, as each one lay 

Sucking the sullen milk away. 

About my frozen heart did play, 

And weaned it, oh how painfully ! — 

As they themselves were weaned each one 

From that sweet food, — even from the thirst 

Of death, and nothingness, and rest. 

Strange inmate of a living breast ! 

Which all that I had undergone 

Of grief and shame, since she, who first 

The gates of that dark refuge closed. 

Came to my sight, and almost burst 

The seal of that Lethean spring ; 

But these fair shadows interposed : 

For all delights are shadows now ! 

And from my brain to my dull brow 

The heavy tears gather and flow: 

I cannot speak — Oh let me weep I 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



235 



The tears which fell from her wan ej'es 
Glimmered among the moonlight dew ! 
Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs 
Their echoes in the darkness threw. 
When she grew calm, she thus did keep 
The tenor of her tale : 

He died, 
I know not how. He was not old, 
If age he numbered by its years ; 
But he was bowed and bent with fears, 
Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold. 
Which, like fierce fever, left him weak ; 
And his strait lip and bloated cheek 
Were warped in spasms by hollow sneers ; 
And selfish cares with barren plough, 
Not age, had lined his narrow brow, 
And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed 
Upon the withering life within, 
Like vipers on some poisonous weed. 
Whether his ill were death or sin 
None knew, until he died indeed. 
And then men owned they were the same. 

Seven days within my chamber lay 
That corse, and my babes made holiday : 
At last, I told them what is death : 
The eldest, with a kind of shame. 
Came to my knees with silent breath, 
And sate awe-stricken at my feet; 
And soon the others left their play, 
And sate there too. It is unmeet 
To shed on the brief flower of youth 
The withering knowledge of the grave ; 
From me remorse then wrung that truth. 
I could not bear the joy which gave 
Too just a response to mine own. 
In vain. I dared not feign a groan ; 
And in their artless looks I saw, 
Between the mists, of fear and awe, 
That my own thought was theirs ; and they 
Expressed it not in words, but said. 
Each in its heart. How every day 
Will pass in happy work and play. 
Now he is dead and gone away ! 

After the funeral all the kin 

Assembled, and the will was read. 

My friend, I tell thee, even the dead 

Have strength, their putrid shrouds within, 

To blast and torture. Those who live 

Still fear the living, but a corse 

Is merciless, and power doth give 

To such pale tyrants half the spoil 

He rends from those who groan and toil, 

Because they blush not with remorse 

Among their crawling worms. Behold, 

I have no child ! my tale grows old 

With giief, and staggers : let it reach 

The hmits of my feeble speech. 

And languidly at length recline 

On the brink of its own grave and mine. 

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty 
Among the fallen on evil days : 
'Tis Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, 
And houseless Want in frozen wavs 



Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, 

And worse than all, that inward stain. 

Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers 

Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears 

First like hot gall, then diy for ever ! 

And well thou knowest a mother never 

Could doom her children to this ill. 

And well he knew the same. The will 

Imported, that if e'er again 

I sought my children to behold, 

Or in my birthplace did remain 

Beyond three days, whose hours were told. 

They should inherit nought: and he. 

To whom next came their patrimony, 

A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold, 

Aye watched me, as the will was read. 

With eyes askance, which sought to see 

The secrets of my agony ; 

And with close lips and anxious brow 

Stood canvassing still to and fro 

The chance of my resolve, and all 

The dead man's caution just did call; 

For in that killing lie 'twas said — 

" She is adulterous, and doth hold 

In secret that the Christian creed 

Is false, and therefore is much need 

That I should have a care to save 

My children from eternal fire." 

Friend, he was sheltered by the grave, 

And therefore dared to be a liar ! 

In truth, the Indian on the j)yre 

Of her dead husband, half-consumed, 

As well might there be false, as I 

To those abhorred embraces doomed. 

Far worse than fire's brief agony. 

As to the Christian creed, if true 

Or false, I never questioned it : 

I took it as the vulgar do ; 

Nor my vext soul had leisure yet 

To doubt the things men say, or deem 

That they are other than they seem. 

All present who those crimes did hear, 

In feigned or actual scorn and fear, 

Men, women, children, slunk away, 

Whispering with self-contented pride. 

Which half suspects its own base lie. 

I spoke to none, nor did abide. 

But silently I went my way. 

Nor noticed I where joyously 

Sate my two younger babes at play. 

In the courtj'ard through which I past; 

But went with footstejis firm and fast 

Till I came to the brink of the ocean green, 

And there, a woman with gray hairs. 

Who had my mother's servant been. 

Kneeling, with many tears and prayers, 

Made mc accept a purse of gold, 

Half of the earnings she had kept 

To refuge her when weak and old. 

With wo, which never sleeps or slept, 
I wander now. 'Tis a vain thought — 
But on yon alp, whose snowy head 
'Mid the azure air is islanded 



(We see it o'er the flood of cloud, 

Which sunrise from its eastern caves 

Drives, wrinkhng into golden waves, 

Hung with its precipices proud, 

From that gray stone where first we met,) 

There, now who knows the dead feel nought 1 

Should be my grave ; for he who yet 

Is my soul's soul, once said : " 'Twere sweet 

'Mid stars and lightnings to abide. 

And winds and lulling snows, that beat 

With their soft flakes the mountain wide, 

When weary meteor lamps repose. 

And languid storms their pinions close : 

And all things strong and bright and pure, 

And ever-during, aye endure : 

Who knows, if one were buried there. 

But these things might our spirits make. 

Amid the all-surrounding air, 

Their own eternity partake 1" 

Then 'twas a wild and playful saying 

At which I laughed or seemed to laugh : 

They were his words : now heed my prayuig, 

And let them be my epitaph. 

Thy memory for a term may be 

My monument. Wilt remember me ? 

I know thou wilt, and canst forgive 

Whilst in this erring world to live 

My soul disdained not, that I thought 

Its lying forms were worthy aught, 

And much less thee. 



O speak not so, 
But come to me and pour thy wo 
Into this heart, fall though it be, 
Aye overflowing with its own : 
I thought that grief had severed me 
From all beside who weep and groan ; 
Its likeness upon earth to be. 
Its express image ; but thou art 
More wretched. Sweet ! we will not part 
Henceforth, if death be not division ; 
If so, the dead feel no contrition. 
But wilt thou hear, since last we parted 
All that has left me broken-hearted 1 

n0SALI!«^D. 

Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn 
Of their thin beams, by that delusive morn 
Which sinks again in darkness, like the light 
Of early love, soon lost in total night. 

HELEHr. 

Alas ! Italian winds are mild. 

But my bosom is cold — ^wintry cold — 

When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves 

Soft music, my poor brain is wild, 

And I am weak like a nursling child. 

Though my soul with grief is gray and old. 

KOSAIIND. 

Weep not at thine own words, though they must 

make 
Me weep. What is thy tale 1 

hei.e:s. 

I fear 'twill shake 



Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well 
Rememberest when we met no more, 
And, though I dwelt with Lionel, 
That friendless caution pierced me sore 
With grief — a wound my spirit bore 
Indignantly ; but when he died, 
With him lay dead both hope and pride. 

Alas ! all hope is buried now. 

But then men dreamed the aged earth 

Was labouring in that mighty birth, 

Which many a poet and a sage 

Has aye foreseen — the happy age 

When truth and love shall dwell below 

Among the works and ways of men ; 

Which on this world not power but will 

Even now is wanting to fultil. 

Among mankind what thence befell 

Of strife, how vain, is know^ too well ; 

When Liberty's dear pajan fell 

'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel, 

Though of great wealth and lineage high, 

Yet through those dungeon walls there came 

Thy thrilling light, Liberty ! 

And as the meteor's midnight flame 

Startles the dreamer, sunlLke truth 

Flashed on his visionary youth, 

And filled him, not with love, but faith, 

And hope, and courage mute in death ; 

For love and life in him were twins, 

Born at one birth: in every other 

First life, then love its course begins, 

Though they be children of one mother; 

And so through this dark world they fleet 

Divided, till in death they meet : 

But he loved all things ever. Then 

He passed amid the strife of men. 

And stood at the throne of armed power 

Pleading for a world of wo : 

Secure as one on a rock-built tower 

O'er the wrecks which the sviige trails to and fro, 

'Mid the passions wild of human kind 

He stood, like a spirit calming them ; 

For, it was said, his words could bind 

Like music the lulled crowd, and stem 

That torrent of unquiet dream 

Which mortals truth and reason deem. 

But is revenge and fear, and pride. 

Joyous he was ; and hope and peace 

On all who heard him did abide, 

Raining like dew from his sweet talk, 

As where the evening star may walk 

Along the brink of the gloomy seas. 

Liquid mists of splendour quiver. 

His very gestures touched to tears 

The unpersuaded tyrant, never 

So moved before : his presence stung 

The torturers with their victims' pain. 

And none knew how ; and through their ears. 

The subtle witchcraft of his tongue 

Unlocked the hearts of those who keep 

Gold, the world's bond of slavery. 

Men wondered and some sneered to see 

One sow what he could never reap : 

For he is rich, they said, and young, 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



237 



And might drink from the depths of luxury. 
If he seeks fame, fame never crowned 
The champion of a trampled creed : 
If he seeks power, power is enthroned 
'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed 
Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil, 
Those who would sit near power must toil ; 
And such, there sitting, all may see. 
What seeks he 1 All that others seek 
He casts away, like a vile weed 
Which the sea casts unreturningly. 

That poor and hungry men should break 

The laws which wreak them toil and scorn, 

We understand ; but Lionel 

We know is rich and nobly born. 

So wondered they ; yet all men loved 

Young Lionel, though few approved ; 

All but the priests, whose hatred fell 

Like the unseen blight of a smiling day, 

The withering honey-dew, which clings 

Under the bright green buds of May, 

Whilst they unfold their emerald wings : 

For he made verses wild and queer 

On the strange creeds priests hold so dear. 

Because they bring them land and gold. 

Of devils and saints and all such gear. 

He made tales wliich whoso heard or read 

Would laugh till he were almost dead. 

So this grew a proverb : " Don't get old 

Till Lionel's ' banquet in hell' you hear. 

And then you will laugh yourself young again." 

So the priests hated him, and he 

Repaid their hate with cheerful glee. 

Ah ! smiles and joyance quickly died, 

For public hope grew pale and dim 

In an altered time and tide, 

And in its wasting withered him. 

As a summer flower that blows too soon 

Droops in the smile of the waning moon, 

When it scatters through an April night 

The frozen dews of wrinkling blight. 

None now hoped more. Gray Power was seated 

Safely on her ancestral throne ; 

And Faith, the Python, undefeated. 

Even to its blood-stained steps dragged on 

Her foul and wounded train ; and men 

Were trampled and deceived again, 

And words and shows again could bind 

The wailing tribes of humankind 

In scorn and famine. Fire and blood 

Raged round the raging multitude, 

To fields remote by tyrants sent 

To be the scorned instrument. 

With which they drag from mines of gore 

The chains their slaves yet ever wore ; 

And in the streets men met each other. 

And by old altars and in halls, 

And smiled again at festivals. 

But each man found in his heart's brother 

Cold cheer; for all, though half deceived, 

The outworn creeds again believed. 

And the same round anew began. 

Which the weary world yet ever ran. 



Many then wept, not tears, but gall. 

Within their hearts, like drops which fall 

Wasting the fountain-stone away. 

And in that dark and evil day 

Did all deskes and thoughts, that claim 

Men's care — ambition, friendship, fame, 

Love, hope, though hope was now despair — 

Indue the colours of this change, 

As from the all-surrounding air 

The earth takes hues obscure and strange, 

When storm and earthquake hnger there. 

And so, my friend, it then befell 
To many, most to Lionel, 
Whose hope was like the life of youth 
Within him, and when dead, became 
A spirit of unresting flame, 
Which goaded him in his distress 
Over the world's vast wilderness. 
Three years he left his native land, 
And on the fourth, when he returned. 
None knew him : he was stricken deep 
With some disease of mind, and turned 
Into aught unlike Lionel. 
On him — on whom, did he pause in sleep, 
Serenest smiles were wont to keep, 
And, did he wake, a winged band 
Of bright persuasions, which had fed 
On his sweet lips and liquid eyes. 
Kept their swift pinions half outspread. 
To do on men his least command — 
On him, whom once 'twas paradise 
Even to behold, now misery lay ; 
In his own heart 'twas merciless, 
To all things else none may express 
Its innocence and tenderness. 

'Twas said that he had refuge sought 

In love from his unquiet thought 

In distant lands, and been deceived 

B}' some strange show ; for there were found, 

Blotted with teai's, as those relieved 

By their own words are wont to do. 

These mournful verses on the ground, 

By all who read them blotted too. 

" How am I changed ! my hopes were once like 

fire: 
I loved, and I believed that life was love. 
How am I lost ! on wings of swift desire 
Among Heaven's winds my spirit once did move. 
I slept, and silver dreams did aye inspire 
My liquid sleep. I woke, and did approve 
All nature to my heart, and thought to make 
A paradise of earth for one sweet sake. 
I love, but I believe in love no more : 
I feel desire, but hope not. O, from sleep 
Most vainly must my weary brain implore 
Its long-lost flattery now. I wake to weep, 
And sit through the long day gnawing the core 
Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, keep. 
Since none in what I feel take pain or pleasure. 
To my own soul its self-consuming treasure." 

He dwelt beside me near the sea ; 
And oft in evening did we meet, 



238 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



When the waves, beneath the starlight, flee 

O'er the yellow sands with silver feet, 

And talked. Our talk was sad and sweet, 

Till slowly from his mien there passed 

The desolation which it spoke ; 

And smiles, — as when the lightning's blast 

Has parched some heaven-delighting oak, 

The next spring shows leaves pale and rare, 

But like flowers delicate and fair. 

On its rent boughs — again arrayed 

His countenance in tender light : 

His words grew subtle fire, which made 

The air his hearers breathed delight : 

His motions, like the winds, were free, 

Which bend the bright gi-ass gracefully, 

Then fade away in circlets faint : 

And winged Hope, on which upborne 

His soul seemed hovering in his eyes, 

Like some bright spirit newly-born 

Floating amid the sunny skies. 

Sprang forth from his rent heart anew. 

Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien. 

Tempering their lovehness too keen, 

Past wo its shadow backward threw, 

Till like an exhalation, spread 

From flowers half drunk with evening dew, 

They did become infectious : sweet 

And subtle mists of sense and thought 

Which wrapt us soon, when we might meet. 

Almost fi-om our own looks, and aught 

The wide world holds. And so, his mind 

Was healed, while mine grew sick with fear : 

For ever now his health dechned. 

Like some frail bark which cannot bear 

The impulse of an altered wind. 

Though prosperous ; and my heart grew full 

'Mid its new joy of a new care : 

For his cheek became, not pale, but fair, 

As rose-o'ershadowed lilies are ; 

And soon his deep and sunny hair, 

In this alone less beautiful. 

Like grass in tombs grew wild and rare. 

The blood in his translucent veins 

Beat, not like animal life, but love 

Seemed now its sullen springs to move, 

When life had failed, and all its pains ; 

And sudden sleep would seize him oft 

Like death, so calm, but that a tear, 

His pointed eyelashes between, 

Would gather in the light serene 

Of smiles, whose lustre bright and soil 

Beneath lay undulating there. 

His breath was like inconstant flame. 

As eagerly it went and came ; 

And I hung o'er him in his sleep, 

Till, like an image in the lake 

Which rains disturb, my tears would break 

The shadow of that slumber deep; 

Then he would bid me not to weep, 

And say, with flattery false, yet sweet. 

That death and he could never meet, 

If I would never part with him. 

And so we loved, and did unite 

All that in us was yet divided : 

For when he said, that many a rite. 



By men to bind but once provided. 
Could not be shared by him and me, 
Or they would kill him in their glee, 
I shuddered, and then laughing said, 
" We will have rites our faith to bind. 
But our church shall be the starry night, 
Our altar the grassy earth outspread, 
And our priest the muttering wind." 

'Twas sunset as I spoke : one star 

Had scarce burst forth, when from afar 

The ministers of misrule sent. 

Seized upon Lionel, and bore 

His chained limbs to a dreary tower. 

In the midst of a city far and wide. 

For he, they said, from his mind had bent 

Against their gods keen blasphemy, 

For which, though his soul must roasted be 

In hell's red lakes immortally. 

Yet even on earth must he abide 

The vengeance of their slaves — a trial, „ 

I think, men call it. What avail 

Are prayers and tears, which chase denial 

Fronr the fierce savage, nursed in hate ? 

What the knit soul that pleading and pale 

Makes wan the quivering cheek, which late 

It painted with its own delight 7 

We were divided. As I could, 

I stilled the tingUng of my blood, 

And followed him in their despite, 

As a widow follows, pale and wild. 

The murderers and corse of her only child ; 

And when we came to the prison-door, 

And I prayed to share his dungeon floor 

With prayers which rarely have been spurned, 

And when men drove me forth and I 

Stared with blank fi'enzy on the sky, 

A farewell look of love he turned. 

Half-calming me ; then gazed awhile, 

As if through that black and massy pile, 

And through the crowd around him there, 

And through the dense and murky air, 

And the tlironged streets, he did espy 

What poets knew and prophecy ; 

And said, with voice that made them shiver. 

And clung like music in my brain. 

And which the mute walls spoke again 

Prolonging it with deepened strain — 

" Fear not the tyrants shall rule for ever. 

Or the priests of the bloody faith ; 

They stand on the brink of that mighty river, 

Whose waves they have tainted with death : 

It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells, 

Around them it foams, and rages, and swells, 

And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, 

Like wrecks, in the surge of eternity." 

I dwelt beside the prison gate, 

And the strange crowd that out and in 

Passed, some, no doubt, with mine own fate. 

Might have fretted me with its ceaseless din. 

But the fever of care was louder within. 

Soon, but too late, in penitence 

Or fear, his foes released him thence : 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



239 



I saw his thin and languid form, 

As leaning on the jailer's arm, 

Whose hardened eyes grew moist the while, 

To meet his mute and faded smile, 

And hear his words of kind farewell. 

He tottered forth fi-om his damp cell. 

Many had never wept before, 

From whom fast tears then gushed and fell : 

Many will relent no more. 

Who sobbed like infants then ; ay, all 

Who thronged the prison's stony hall. 

The rulers of the slaves of law 

Felt with a new surprise and awe 

That they were human, till strong shame 

Made them again become the same. 

The prison bloodhounds, huge and grim. 

From human looks the infection caught, 

And fondly crouched and fawned on him ; 

And men have heard the prisoners say, 

Who in their rotten dungeons lay, 

That from that hour, throughout one day. 

The fierce despair and hate, which kept 

Their trampled bosoms, almost slept : 

When, like twin-vultures, they hung feeding 

On each heart's wound, wide torn and bleeding, 

Because their jailer's rule, they thought, 

Grew merciful, like a parent's sway. 

I know not how, but we were free : 

And Lionel sate alone with me, 

As the carriage drove through the streets apace ; 

And we looked upon each other's face ; 

And the blood in our fingers intertwined 

Ran like the thoughts of a single mind. 

As the svrift emotions went and came 

Through the veins of each united frame. 

So through the long long streets we past 

Of the million-peopled city vast; 

Which is that desert, where each one 

Seeks his mate yet is alone. 

Beloved, and sought and mourned of none; 

Until the clear blue sky was seen. 

And the grassy meadows bright and green, 

And then I sunk in his embrace, 

Enclosing there a mighty space 

Of love : and so we travelled on 

By woods and fields of yellow flowers, 

And towns, and villages, and towers. 

Day after day of happy hours. 

It was the azure time of June, 

When the skies are deep in the stainless noon. 

And the warm and fitful breezes shake 

The fresh green leaves of the. hedgerow brier; 

And there were odours then to make 

The very breath we did respire 

A liquid element, whereon 

Our spirits, like delighted things 

That walk the air on subtle wings, 

Floated and mingled far away, 

'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. 

And when the evening star came forth 

Above the curve of the new bent moon. 

And light and sound ebbed from the earth, 

Like the tide of the full and weary sea 

To the depths of its own tranquillity, 



Our natures to its own repose 

Did the earth's breathless sleep attune : 

Like flowers, which on each other close 

Their languid leaves when daylight's gone. 

We lay, till new emotions came. 

Which seemed to make cacii mortal frame 

One soul of intenvoven flame, 

A life in life, a second birth, 

In worlds diviner far than earth. 

Which, like two strains of harmony 

That mingle in the silent sky, 

Then slowly disunite, past by 

And left the tenderness of tears, 

A soft oblivion of all fears, 

A sweet sleep : so we travelled on 

Till we came to the home of Lionel, 

Among the mountains wild and lone, 

Beside the hoary western sea, 

Which near the verge of the echoing shore 

The massy forests shadowed o'er. 

The ancient steward, with hair all hoar. 

As we alighted, wept to see 

His master changed so fearfully; 

And the old man's sobs did waken me 

From my dream of unremaining gladness ; 

The truth flashed o'er me like quick madness 

When I looked, and saw that there was death 

On Lionel : yet day by day 

He lived, till fear grew hope and faith. 

And in my soul I dared to say. 

Nothing so bright can pass away : 

Death is dark, and foul, and dull. 

But he is — O how beautiful ! 

Yet day by day he grew more weak, 

And his sweet voice, when he might speak, 

Which ne'er was loud, became more low ; 

And the light which flashed through his waxen 

cheek 
Grew faint, as the roselike hues which flow 
From sunset o'er the Alpine snow : 
And death seemed not like death in him, 
For the spirit of life o'er every limb 
Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. 
When the summer wind faint odours brought 
From fountain flowers, even as it passed, 
His cheek would change, as the noonday sea 
Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully. 
If but a cloud the sky o'ercast. 
You might see his colour come and go, 
And the softest strain of music made 
Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade 
Amid the dew of his tender eyes ; 
And the breath, vvdth intermitting flow. 
Made his pale lips quiver and part. 
You might hear the beatings of his heart, 
Quick, but not strong ; and with my tresses 
When oft he playfully would bind 
In the bowers of mossy lonchnesses 
His neck, and win me so to mingle 
In the sweet depth of woven caresses. 
And our faint limbs were intertwined, 
Alas ! the unquiet Hfe did tingle 
From mine own heart through every vein. 
Like a captive in dreams of Uberty, 



240 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



Who beats the walls of his stony cell. 

But his, it seemed already free. 

Like the shadow of fire surrounding me ! 

On m^ feint eyes and limbs did dwell 

That spirit as it passed, till soon, 

As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon. 

Beneath its light invisible, 

Is seen when it folds its gray wings again 

To alight on midnight's dusky plain, 

I lived and saw, and the gathering soul 

Passed from beneath that strong control, 

And I fell on a life which was sick with fear 

Of all the wo that now I bear. 

Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, 

On a green and sea-girt promontoiy. 

Not far from where we dwelt, there stood 

In record of a sweet sad story, 

An altar and a temple bright 

Circled by steps, and o'er the gate 

Was sculptured, " To Fidelity ;" 

And in the shrine an image sate. 

All veiled : but there was seen the light 

Of smiles, which faintly could express 

A mingled pain and tenderness, 

Through that ethereal drapery. 

The left hand held the head, the right — 

Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, 

You might see the nerves quivering within — 

Was forcing the point of a bai-bed dart 

Into its side-convulsing heart. 

An unskilled hand, yet one informed 

With genius, had the marlile warmed 

With that pathetic life. This tale 

It told: A dog had from the sea. 

When the tide was raging fearfully, 

Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale. 

Then died beside her on the sand. 

And she that temple thence had planned ; 

But it was Lionel's own hand 

Had wrought the image. Each new moon 

That lady did, in this lone fane, 

The rites of a religion sweet, 

Whose god was in her heart and brain: 

The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn 

On the marble floor beneath her feet, 

And she brought crowns of sea-buds white, 

Whose odour is so sweet and faint. 

And weeds, like branching chrysolite, 

Woven in devices fine and quaint. 

And tears from- her brown eyes did stain 

The altar : need but look upon 

That dying statue, fair and wan, 

If tears should cease, to weep again : 

And rare Arabian odours came, 

Through the myrtle copses, steaming thence 

From the hissing frankincense. 

Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, 

Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome. 

That ivory dome, whose azure night 

With golden stars, like heaven, was bright 

O'er the split cedars' pointed flame ; 

And the lady's harp would kindle there 

The melody of an old air. 

Softer than sleep ; the villagers 



Mixed their religion up with hers, 
And as they listened round, shed tears. 

One eve he led me to this fane : 

Daylight on its last pui7)le cloud 

Was lingering gray, and soon her sti'ain 

The nightingale began ; now loud. 

Climbing in circles the windless sky. 

Now dying music ; suddenly 

'Tis scattered in a thousand notes, 

And now to the hushed ear it floats 

Like field-smells known in infancy. 

Then falling, soothes the air again. 

We sate within that temple lone, 

Pavilioned round with Parian stone : 

His mother's harp stood near, and oft 

I had awalicned music soft 

Amid its wires: the nightingale 

Was pausing ui her heaven-taught tale : 

" Now drain the cup," said Lionel, 

" Which the poet-bird has crowned so well 

With the wine of her bright and liquid song ! 

Heardst thou not sweet words among 

That heaven-resounding minstrelsy I 

Heardst thou not, that those who die 

Awake in a world of ecstacy 1 

That love, when limbs are interwoven, 

And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, 

And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging, 

And music, when one beloved is singing, 

Is death ] Let us drain right joyously 

The cup which the sweet bird fills for me." 

He paused, and to my lips he bent 

His own : like spirit his words went 

Through all my limbs with the speed of fire 

And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, 

Filled me with the flame divine, 

Which in their orbs was burning far. 

Like the light of an unmeasured star, 

In the sky of midnight dark and deep : 

Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire 

Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken ; 

And first, I felt my fingers sweep 

The harp, and a long quivering cry 

Burst from my lips in symphony : 

The dusk and solid air was shaken. 

As swift and swifter the notes came 

From my touch, that wandered like qiuck flame, 

And from my bosom, labouring 

With some unutterable thing : 

The awful sound of my own voice made 

My faint lips tremble ; in some mood 

Of wordless thought Lionel stood 

So pale, that even beside his cheek 

The snoivy column from its shade 

Caught whiteness : yet his countenance 

Raised upward, burned with radiance 

Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light. 

Like the moon struggling through the night 

Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break 

With beams that might not be confined. 

I paused, but soon his gestures kindled 
New power, as by the moving wind 



'ROSALIND AND HELEN. 241 




The waves are Med, and my song 


Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange 




To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, 


I knew not of so g;reat a change, 




And from the twinkling wires among, 


As that which gave him birth, who now 




My languid fingers drew and flung 


Is all the solace of my wo. 




Circles of life-dissolving sound. 






Yet faint ; in aery rings they bound 


That Lionel great wealth had left 




My Lionel, who, as eveiy strain 


By will to me, and that of all 




Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien 


The ready lies of law bereft. 




Sunk with the sound relaxedly ; 


My child and me might well befall. 




And slowly now he turned to me, 


But let me think not of the scorn. 




As slowly faded from his face 


Which from the meanest I have borne, 




That awful joy: with looks serene 


When, for my child's beloved sake. 




He was soon drawn to my embrace. 


I mixed with slaves, to vindicate 




And my wild song then died away 


The very laws themselves do make : 




In murmurs : words, I dare not say, 


Let me not say scorn is my fate. 




We mixed, and On his lips mine fed 


Lest I be proud, suffering the same 




Till they methought felt still and cold : 


With those who live in deathless fame. 




" What is it with thee, love 1" I said ; 






No word, no look, no motion ! yes. 


She ceased. — " Lo, where red morning through the 




There was a change, but spare to guess, 


woods 




Nor let that moment's hope be told. 


Is burning o'er the dew !" said Rosalind. 




I looked, and knew that he was dead. 


And with these words they rose, and towards the 




And fell, as the eagle on the plain 


flood 




Falls when life deserts her brain, 


Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind 




And the mortal hghtning is veiled again. 


W^ith equal steps and fingers intertwined : 




that I were now dead ! but such. 


Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore 




Did they not, love, demand too much, 


Is shadowed with rocks, and cypresses 




Those dying murmurs 1 He forbad. 


Cleave vsath their dark green cones the silent skies. 




that I once again were mad ! 


And with their shadows the clear depths below, 




And yet, dear Rosalind, not so. 


And where a little ten-ace from its bowers. 




For I would live to share thy wo. 


Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, 




Sweet boy ! did I forget thee too 1 


Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er 




Alas, we know not what to do 


The liquid marble of the windless lake ; 




When we speak words. 


And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar. 
Under the leaves which their green garments make. 




No memory more 


They come : 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white. 




Is in my mind of that sea-shore. 


Like one which tyrants spare on our own land 




Madness came on me, and a troop 


In some such solitude,-its casements bright 




Of misty shapes did seem to sit 


Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun. 




Beside me, on a vessel's poop. 


And even within 'twas scarce like Italy. 




And the clear north-wind was driving it. 


And when she saw how all things they were 




Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange 


planned, 




flowers, 


As in an English home, dim memory 




And the stars methought grew unlike ours, 


Disturbed poor Rosalind : she stood as one 




And the azure sky and the stormless sea 


Whose mind is where his body cannot be. 




Made me believe that I had died, 


Till Helen led her where her child yet slept. 




And waked in a world which was to me 


And said, " Observe, that brow was Lionel's, 




Drear hell, though heaven to all beside. 


Those lips were his, and so he ever kept 




Then a dead sleep fell on my mind. 


One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. 




Whilst animal hfe many long years 


You cannot see his eyes, they are two wells 




Had rescued from a chasm of tears ; 


Of liquid love : let us not wake him yet." 




And when I woke, I wept to find 


But Rosahnd could bear no more, and wept 




That the same lady, bright and wise. 


A shower of burning tears, which fell upon 




With silver locks and quick brown eyes, 


His face, and so his opening lashes shone 




The mother of my Lionel, 


With tears unlike his own, as he did leap 




Had tended me in my distress. 


In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep. 




And died some months belbre. Nor less 


So Rosalind and Helen lived together 




Wonder, but far more peace and joy, 


Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again. 




Brought in that hour my lovely boy ; 


Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather 




For through that trance my soul had well 


They wandered in their youth, through sun and 




The impress of thy being kept ; 


rain. 




And if I waked, or if I slept, 


And after many years, for human things 




No doubt, though memory faithless be, 


Change even hke the ocean and the wind. 




Thy image ever dwelt on me ; 


Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, 




And thus, Lionel ! like thee 
.-il 


And in their circle thence some visitings 
X 





242 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene : 
A lovely child she was, of looks serene, 
And motions which o'er things indiilerent shed 
The grace and gentleness from whence they came. 
And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed 
From the same flowers of thought, until each mind 
Like springs which mingle in one flood became, 
And in their union soon their parents saw 
The shadow of the peace denied to them. 
And RosaUnd, — for when the living stem 
Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall, — 
Died ere her time ; and with deep grief and awe 
The pale survivors followed her remains 
Beyond the region of dissolving rains, 
Up the cold mountain she was wont to call 
Her tomb ; and on Chiavenna's precipice 
They raised a pyramid of lasting ice, 
Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, 
Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun, 



The last, when it had sunk ; and through the night 
The charioteers of Arctos wheeled around 
Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home, 
Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, 
With willing steps climbing that rugged height. 
And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound 
With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's 

despite, 
Filled the frore air vidth unaccustomed light : 
Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom 
Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb. 

Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, 

Whose suflerings too were less, death slowlier led 

Into the peace of his dominion cold : 

She died among her kindred, being old ; 

And know, that if love die not in the dead 

As in the living, none of mortal kind 

Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind. 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



Mavy a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide sea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan, 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 

Drifting on his dreary way. 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky. 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 

And behind the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet, 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimtning deep ; 

And sinks down, down, like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will ; 

But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave. 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet ; 

What, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may, 

Can he dream before that day 

To find refuge from distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress 1 



Then 'twill wreak him little wo 
Whether such there be or no : 
Senseless is the breast, and cold, 
Which relenting love would fold ; 
Bloodless are the veins and chill 
Which the pulse of pain did fill : 
Every little living nerve 
That from bitter words did swerve 
Round the tortured lips and brow, 
Are like sapless leaflets now 
Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally. 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 

Lies a sohtary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones. 

On the margin of the stones. 

Where a few gray rushes stand, 

Boundaries of the sea and land: 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews, as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughtered town. 

When a king ui glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides : 

Those unburied bones around 

There is many a mournful sound ; 

There is no lament for him, 

Like a sunless vapour, dim, 

Who once clothed with life and thought 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG 


THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 243 


Ay, many flowering islands lie 


Save where many a palace-gate 


In the waters of wide Agony : 


With green sea-flowers overgrown 


To such a one this morn was led 


Like a rock of ocean's own. 


My bark, hy soft winds piloted. 


Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 


'Mid the mountains Euganean, 


As the tides change sullenly. 


I stood listening to the psean 


The fisher on his watery way. 


With which the legioned rooks did hail 


Wandering at the close of day. 


The sun's uprise majestical; 


Will spread his sail and seize his oar. 


Gathering round with wings all hoar, 


Till he pass the gloomy shore, 


Through the dewy mist they soar 


Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 


Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 


Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 


Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 


Lead a rapid masque of death 


Flecked with fire and azure, lie 


O'er the waters of his path. 


In the unfathomable sky, 




So their plumes of purple grain. 


Those who alone thy towers behold 


Starred with drops of golden rain. 


Quivering through aerial gold, 


Gleam above the sunlight woods, 


As I now behold them here. 


As in silent multitudes 


Would imagine not they were 


On the morning's fitful gale 


Sepulchres, where human forms, 


Through the broken mist they sail ; 


Like pollution-nourished worms. 


And the vapours cloven and gleaming 


To the corpse of greatness cling, 


Follow down the dark steep streaming, 


Murdered and now mouldering: 


Till all is bright, and clear, and still. 


But if Freedom should awake 


Round the solitary hilL 


In her omnipotence, and shake 




From the Celtic Anarch's hold 


Beneath is spread like a green sea 


All the keys of dungeons cold, 


The wavcless plain of Lombardy, 


Where a hundred cities he 


Bounded by the vaporous air, 


Chained like thee, ingloriously, 


Islanded by cities fair; 


Thou and all thy sister band 


Underneath day's azure eyes, 


Might odorn this sunny land. 


Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,— • 


Twining memories of old time 


A peopleK.1 labyrinth of walls. 


With nevi^ virtues more sublime ; 


Amphitrite's destined halls, 


If not, perish thou and they ; 


Which her hoary sire now paves 


Clouds which stain truth's rising day 


With his blue and beaming waves. 


By her sun consumed away, 


Lo ! the sun upsprings behind. 


Earth can spare ye ; while like flowers, 


Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 


In the waste of years and hours, 


On the level quivering line 


From your dust new nations spring 


Of the waters crystalline ; 


With more kindly blossoming. 


And before that chasm of light, 




As within a furnace bright. 


Perish ! let there only he 


Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 


Floating o'er thy heartless sea. 


Shine hke obelisks of fire, 


As the garment of thy sky 


Pointing with inconstant motion 


Clothes the world immortally, 


From the altar of dark ocean 


One remembrance, more subUme 


To the sapphire-tinted skies; 


Than the tattered pall of Time, 


As the flames of sacrifice 


Which scarce hides thy visage wan : 


From the marble shrines did rise 


That a tempest-cleaving swan 


As to pierce the dome of gold 


Of the songs of Albion, 


Where Apollo spoke of old. 


Driven from his ancestral streams. 




By the might of evil dreams. 


Sun-girt City ! thou ha-st been 


Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean 


Ocean's child, and then his queen; 


Welcomed him with such emotion 


Now is come a darker day. 


That its joy grew his, and sprung 


And thou soon must be his prey. 


From his lips like music flung 


If the power that raised thee here 


O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 


Hallow so thy watery bier. 


Chastening terror : what though yet 


A less drear ruin then than now. 


Poesy's unfailing river. 


With thy conquest branded brow 


Which through Albion winds for ever, 


Stooping to the slave of slaves 


Lashing with melodious wave 


From thy throne among the waves. 


Man)' a sacred poet's grave. 


Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 


Mourn its latest nursUng fled ! 


Flics, as once before it flew. 


What though thou with all thy dead 


O'er thine isles depopulate. 


Scarce can for this fame repay 


And all is in its ancient state. 


Aught thine own, — oh, rather say. 



244 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



Though thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sunlike soul ! 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 

As divinest Shakspeare's might 

Fills Avon and the world with light, 

Like omniscient power, which he 

Imaged 'mid mortality ; 

As the love from Petrarch's urn, 

Yet amid yon hills doth bum, 

A quenchless lamp, by which the heart 

Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, 

Mighty spirit : so shall be 

The city that did refuge thee. 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky, 
Like thought-winged Liberty, 
Till the universal light 
Seems to level plain and height; 
From the sea a mist has spread. 
And the beams of morn lie dead 
On the towers of Venice now, 
Like its glory long ago. 
By the skirts of that gray cloud 
Many-domed Padua proud 
Stands, a peopled solitude, 
'Mid the harvest shining plain, 
Where the peasant heaps Ms grain 
In the garner of his foe, 
And the milkwhite oxen slow 
With the purple vintage strain, 
Heaped upon the creaking wain. 
That the brutal Celt may swill 
Drunken sleep with E<avage will; 
And the sickle to the sword 
Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
Overgrows this region's foison, 
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
To destruction's harvest-home : 
Men must reap the things they sow. 
Force from force must ever flow, 
Or worse ; but 'tis a bitten- wo 
That love or reason cannot change 
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 

Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals. 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
Till Death cried, " I win, I win I" 
And Sin cursed to lose the wager, 
But Death promised, to assuage her. 
That he would petition for 
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
When the destined years were o'er. 
Over all between the Po 
And the eastern Alpine snow, 
Under the mighty Austrian. 
Sin smiled so as Sin only can. 
And since that time, ay, long before. 
Both have ruled from shore to shore. 
That incestuous pair, who follow 
Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 
As Repentance follows Crime, 
And as changes follow Time. 



In thine halls the lamp of learning, 

Padua, now no more is burning ; 

Like a meteoi-, whose wild way 

Is lost over the grave of day, 

It gleams betrayed and to betray: 

Once remotest nations came 

To adore that sacred flame. 

When it lit not many a hearth 

On this cold and gloomy earth ; 

Now new fires from Antique light 

Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 

But their spark lies dead in thee, 

Trampled out by tyranny. 

As the Norway woodman quells. 

In the depth of piny dells. 

One light flame among the brakes. 

While the boundless forest shakes. 

And its mighty trunks are torn 

By the fire thus lowly born ; 

The spark beneath his feet is dead. 

He starts to see the flames it fed 

Howling through the darkened sky 

With a myriad tongues victoriously. 

And sinks down in fear: so thou, 

O tyranny ! beholdest now 

Light around thee, and thou hearest 

The loud flames ascend, and fearest : 

Grovel on the earth ; ay, hide 

In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now: 
'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 
When a soft and purple mist 
Like a vaporous amethyst, 
Or an air-dissolved star 
MingUng light and fragrance, far 
From the cui"ved horizon's bound 
To the point of heaven's profound. 
Fills the overflowing sky ; 
And the plains that silent lie 
Underneath ; the leaves unsodden 
Where the infant frost has trodden 
With his morning-winged feet, 
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
And the red and golden vines, 
Piercing with their trellised lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
The dun and bladed grass no less. 
Pointing from this hoary tower 
In the windless air; the flower 
Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
In the south dimly islanded ; 
And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
High between the clouds and sun ; 
And of living things each one ; 
And my spirit, which so long 
Darkened this swift stream of song. 
Interpenetrated lie 
By the glory of the sky ; 
Be it love, light, harmony, 
Odour, or the soul of all 
Which from heaven like dew doth fall. 
Or the mind which feeds this verse 
Peopling the lone universe. 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 



245 



Noon descends, and after noon 

Autumn's evening meets me soon, 

Leading the infantine moon. 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs : 

And the soft dreams of the morn 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

'Mid remembered agonies, 

The frail bark of this lone being,) 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 

And its ancient pilot, Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 



Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of life and agony : 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps. 

On some rock the wild wave wraps. 

With folding wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built, 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 



In a dell 'mid lawny hills. 

Which the wild sea-murnmr fills. 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round, 

And the Ught and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and sliine. 

We may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air, 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The pollutmg multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies ; 

And the love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life, 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its ovra mild brotherhood. 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain, 

And the earth grow young again. 



x2 



246 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 

^ Couuersation. 



The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, 
The goats with the green leaves of budding spring, 
Are saturated not — nor Love with tears. 

Vikgil''s Gallps. 



CoTiJfT Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of 
ancient family and of great fortune, who, without 
mixing mudi in the society of his countrymen, re- 
sides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. 
He is a person of the most consummate genius ; 
and capable, if he would direct his energies to 
such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his de- 
graded country. But it is his weakness to be 
proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own 
extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects 
that surround him, an intense apprehension of the 
nothingness of human life. His passions and his 
powers are incomparably greater than those of 
other men, and, instead of the latter having been 
employed in curbing the former, they have mu- 
tually lent each other strength. His ambition preys 
upon itself, for want of objects which it can con- 
sider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is 
proud, because I can find no other word to express 
the concentred and impatient feeUngs which con- 
sume him ; but it is on his own hopes and affec- 
tions only that he seems to trample, for in social 
life no human being can be more gentle, patient, 
and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, 
frank, and witty. His more serious conversation 
is a sort of intoxication ; men are held by it as by 
a spell. He has travelled much ; and there is an 



inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures 
in diiTerent countries. 

Julian is an Englishman of good family, pas- 
sionately attached to those philosophical notions 
wliich assert the power of man over his own mind, 
and the immense improvements of which, by the 
extinction of certain moral superstitions, human 
society may yet be susceptible. Without conceal- 
ing the evil in tlie world, he is for ever speculating 
how good may be made superior. He is a com- 
plete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed 
holy ; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in 
drawing out his taunts against religion. What 
Maddalo thinks on tliese matters is not exactly 
known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opi- 
nions, is conjectured by his fi"iends to possess 
some good qualities. How far this is possible 
the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather 
serious. 

Of the Maniac I can give no information. He 
seems by his own account to have been disap- 
pointed in love. He was e^idently a very culti- 
vated and amiable person when in his right senses. 
His story, told at length, might be like many other 
stories of the same kind : the unconnected excla- 
mations of his agony will perhaps be found a suffi- 
cient comment for the text of every heart. 



I noDE one evening with Count Maddalo 

Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow 

Of Adria towards Venice : a bare strand 

Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, 

Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, 

Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, 

Is this, an uninhabited sea-side. 

Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, 

Abandons : and no other object breaks 

The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes 

Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes 

A narrow space of level sand thereon, 

Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went dovni. 

This ride was my delight. I love all waste 

And solitary places ; where we taste 

The pleasure of believing what we see 

Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be : 



And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows : and yet more 
Than all, with a remembered friend I love 
To ride as then I rode ; — ^for the winds drove 
The li\'ing spray along the sunny air 
Into our foces : the blue heavens were bare, 
Stripped to their depths by the awakening north ; 
And, fi-om the waves, sound like dehght broke forth 
Harmonizing with soUtude, and sent 
Into our hearts aerial meniment. 

So, as we rode, we talked ; and the swift thought, 
Winging itself with laughter, lingered not. 
But flew from brain to brain, — such glee was ours, 
Charged with light memories of remembered hours. 
None slow enough for sadness: till we came 
Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



247 



This day had been cheerful but cold, and now 

The sun was sinking, and the wind also. 

Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be 

Talk interrupted with such raillery 

As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 

The thoughts it would extinguish : — 'twas forlorn, 

Yet pleasing ; such as once, so poets tell, 

The devils held within the dales of hell, 

Concerning God, freewill, and destiny. 

Of all that Earth has been, or yet may be ; 

All that vain men imagine or believe, 

Or hope can paint, or suffering can achieve. 

We descanted ; and I (for ever still 

It is not wise to make the best of ill 1) 

Argued against despondency ; but pride 

Made my companion take the darker side. 

The sense that he was greater than his kind 

Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit bhnd 

By gazing on its own exceeding light. 

Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight 

Over the horizon of the mountains — Oh ! 

How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 

Of heaven descends upon a land like thee, 

Thou paradise of exiles, Italy ! 

Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the 

towers, 
Of cities they encircle ! — It was ours 
To stand on thee, beholding it : and then, 
Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men 
Were waiting for us with the gondola. 
As those who pause on some delightful way. 
Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood 
Looking upon the evening and the flood, 
Which lay between the city and the shore. 
Paved with the image of the sky : the hoar 
And airy Alps, towards the north, appeared. 
Through mist, a heaven-sustaining bulwark, reared 
Between the east and vv^est ; and half the sky 
Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry, 
Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew 
Down the steep west into a wondrous hue 
Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent 
Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent 
Among the many-folded hills — they were 
Those famous Euganean hills, which bear. 
As seen from Lido through the harbour piles. 
The likeness of a clump of peaked isles — 
And then, as if the earth and sea had been 
Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen 
Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame. 
Around the vaporous sun, from which there came 
The inmost purple spirit of light, and made 
Their very peaks transparent. " Ere it fade," 
Said my companion, " I will show you soon 
A better station." So o'er the lagune 
He glided ; and from the funereal bark 
I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark 
How from their many isles, in evening's gleam. 
Its temples and its palaces did seem 
Like fabrics of enchantment piled to heaven. 
I was about to speak, when — " We are even 
Now at the point I meant," said Maddalo, 
And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 
" Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well 
If you hear not a deep and heavy bell." 



I looked, and saw between us and the sun 

A building on an island, such a one 

As age to age might add, for uses vile, — 

A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile ; 

And on the top an open tower, where hung 

A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung. 

We could just hear its coarse and iron tongue: 

The broad sun sank behind it, and it tolled 

In strong and black relief — " What we behold 

Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower," — 

Said Maddalo ; " and even at this hour, 

Those who may cross the water hear that bell, 

Which calls the maniacs, each one fi-om his cell, 

To vespers." — "As much skill as need to pray, 

In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they, 

To their stern maker," I rephed. — " O, ho ! 

You talk as in years past," said Maddalo. 

" 'Tis strange men change not. You were ever still 

Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, 

A wolf for the meek lambs : if you can't swim, 

Beware of providence." I looked on him. 

But the gay smile had faded from his eye. 

" And such," he cried, " is our mortahty ; 

And this must be the emblem and the sign 

Of what should be eternal and divine ; 

And like that black and dreary bell, the soul. 

Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll 

Our thoughts and our desires to meet below 

Round the rent heart, and pray — as madmen do : 

For what? they know not, till the night of death, 

As sunset that strange vision, severeth 

Our memory from itself, and us from all 

We sought, and yet were baffled." I recall 

The sense of what he said, although I mar 

The force of his expressions. The broad star 

Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill ; 

And the black bell became invisible ; 

And the red tower looked gray ; and all between. 

The churches, ships, and palaces, were seen 

Huddled in gloom ; into the purple sea 

The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. 

We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola 

Conveyed me to my lodging by the way. 

The following morn was rainy, cold and dim : 
Ere Maddalo arose I called on him. 
And whilst I waited with his child I played ; 
A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made ; 
A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being ; 
Graceful without design, and unforseeing ; 
With eyes — Oh ! speak not of her eyes ! which 
Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam [seem 
With such deep meaning as we never see 
But in the human countenance. With me 
She was a special favourite : I had nursed 
Her fine and feeble limbs, when she came first 
To this bleak world ; and yet she seemed to know 
On second sight her ancient playfellow. 
Less changed than she was by six months or so. 
For, after her first shyness was worn out. 
We sate there, rolling billiard-balls about. 
When the Count entered. Salutations passed ; 
" The words you spoke last night might well have 
A darkness on my spirit : — if man be [cast 

The passive thing you say, I should not see 



248 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818. 



Much harm in the religions and old saws, 
(Though / may never own such leaden laws,) 
Which break a tcaclilcss nature to the j'oke : 
Mine is another faith." — Thus much I spoke, 
And, noting he replied not, added — " See 
This lovely child ; blithe, innocent, and free ; 
She spends a happy time, with little care ; 
While we to such sick thoughts subjected are, 
As came on you last night. It is our will 
Which thus enchains us to permitted ill. 
We might be otherwise ; we might be all 
We dream of, happy, high, majestical. 
Where is the beauty, love, and truth, we seek, 
But in our minds'? And, if we were not weak, 
Should we be less in deed than in desire 1" — 
— " Ay, if we were not weak, — and we aspire, 
How vainly ! to be strong," said Maddalo : 
" You talk Utopian" — ■ 

" It remains to know," 
I then rejoined, « and those who try may find 
How strong the chains are which our spirit bind : 
Brittle perchance as straw. We are assured 
Much may be conquered, much may be endured, 
Of what degi'ades and crushes us. We know 
That we have power over ourselves to do 
And suiTer — what, we know not till we try ; 
But something nobler than to live and die : 
So taught the kings of old philosophy, 
Who reigned before religion made men blind ; 
And those who sutler with their suifering kind, 
Yet feel this faith, rehgion." 

« My dear friend," 
Said Maddalo, " my judgment will not bend 
To your opinion, though I think you might 
Make such a system refutation-tight, 
As far as words go. I knew one like you. 
Who to this city came some months ago, 
With whom I argued in this sort, — and he 
Is now gone mad — and so he answered me. 
Poor fellow I — But if you would like to go. 
We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show 
How vain are such aspuing theories." — 

« I hope to prove the induction otherwise, 
And that a want of that true theory still. 
Which seeks a soul of goodness in thmgs ill. 
Or in himself or others, has thus bowed 
His being : — there are some by nature proud, 
W^ho, patient in all else, demand but this — ■ 
To love, and be beloved with gentleness : — 
And being scorned, what wonder if they die 
Some living death 1 This is not destiny, 
But man's own wilful ill." 

As thus I spoke. 
Servants announced the gondola, and we 
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea 
Sailed to the island whore the madhouse stands. 
We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, 
Fierce yells and bowlings, and lamcntings keen, 
And laughter where complaint had merrier been. 
Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs 
Into an old courtyard. I heard on high. 
Then, fragments of most touching melody, 



But looking up saw not the singer there. — 
Through the black bars in the tempestuous air 
I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing, 
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth and flowing. 
Of those on a sudden who were beguiled 
Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled. 
Hearing sweet sounds. Then I : 

" Methinks there were 
A cure of these with patience and kind care, 
If music can thus move. But what is he, 
Whom we seek here V 

" Of his sad history 
I Imow but this," said Maddalo : " he came 
To Venice a dejected man, and fame 
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so. 
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him wo ; 
But he was ever talking in such sort 
As you do, — but more sadly ; — he seemed hurt. 
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong. 
To hear but of the oppression of the strong. 
Or those absurd deceits (I think with yoa 
In some respects, you know) which carry through 
The excellent impostors of this earth 
When they outface detection. He had worth, 
Poor fellow ! but a humourist in his way." — 

— " Alas, what drove him mad 1" 

" I cannot say ; 
A lady came with him from France, and when 
She left him and returned, he wandered then 
About yon lonely isles of desert sand. 
Till he grew wild. He had no cash nor land 
Remaining : — :the police had brought him here — 
Some fancy took him, and he would not bear 
Removal, so I fitted up for him 
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim ; 
And sent him busts, and books, and urns, for 

flowers. 
Which had adorned his life in happier hours. 
And instruments of music. You may guess 
A stranger could do little more or less 
For one so gentle and unfortunate — 
And those are his sweet strains which charm the 

weight 
From madman's chains, and make this hell appear 
A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear." 

" Nay, this was kind of you, — ^he had no claim. 
As the world says." 

« None but the very same 
Wliich I on all mankind, were I, as he, 
Fallen to such deep reverse. His melody 
Is interrupted now : we hear the din 
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begm: 
Let us now visit him : after this strain, 
He ever communes with himself again. 
And sees and hears not any." 

Having said 
These words, we called the keeper, and he led 
To an apartment opening on the sea — 
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully 
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined 
One with the other ; and the ooze and wind 



[JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



249 



Rushed through an open casement, and did sway 

His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray : 

His head was leaning on a music book, 

And he was muttering; and his lean Hmbs shook. 

His hps were pressed against a folded leaf, 

In hue too beautiful for health, and grief 

Smiled in their motions as they lay apart, 

As one who wrought from his own fer\id heart 

The eloquence of passion : soon he raised 

His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed, 

And spoke, — sometimes as one who wrote, and 

thought 
His words might move some heart that heeded not 
If sent to distant lands ; — and then as one 
Reproaching deeds never to be undone. 
With wondering self-compassion ; — then his speech 
Was lost in giief, and then his words came each 
Unmodulated and expressionless, — 
But that from one jarred accent you might guess, 
It was despair made them so uniform 
And all the while the loud and gusty storm 
Hissed through the window, and we stood behind, 
Stealing liis accents from the envious wind, 
Unseen. I yet remember what he said 
Distinctly, such impression his words made. 

« Month after month," he cried, " to bear this load. 
And, as a jade urged by the whip and goad. 
To drag hfe on — wliich like a heavy chain 
Lengthens behind with many a link of pain, 
And not to speak ray grief — O, not to dare 
To give a human voice to my despair ; 
But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on, 
As if I never went aside to groan. 
And wear this mask of falsehood even to those 
Who are most dear — not for my own repose. 
Alas ! no scorn, nor pain, nor hate, could be 
So heav)' as that falsehood is to me — 
But that I cannot bear more altered faces 
Than needs must be, more changed and cold 

embraces. 
More misery, disappointment, and mistinst. 
To ovm me for their father. Would the dust 
Were covered in upon my body now ! 
That the life ceased to toil within my brow ! 
And then these thoughts would at the last be fled: 
Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead. 

" What Power delights to torture us 1 I know 
That to myself I do not wholly owe 
What now I sufFcr, though in part I may. 
Alas ! none strewed fresh flowers upon the way 
Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain, 
My shadow, which will leave me not again. 
If I have erred, there was no joy in error, 
But pain, and insult, and unrest, and terror ; 
I have not, as some do, bought penitence 
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence ; 
For then if love, and tenderness, and truth. 
Had overlived Hope's momentary youth, 
My creed should have redeemed me from repenting ; 
But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting 
Met love excited by far other seeming 
Until the end was gained: — as one from- dreaming 
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state 
Such as it is — 

32 



" O thou, my spirit's mate ! 
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, 
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes 
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see ; 
My secret groans must be unheard by thee ; 
Thou wouldst weep tears, bitter as blood, to know 
Thy lost friend's incommunicable wo. 
Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed 
In friendship, let me not that name degrade. 
By placuig on your hearts the secret load 
Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road 
To peace, and that is truth, which follow ye ! 
Love sometimes leads astray to misery. 
Yet think not, though subdued (and I may well 
Say that I am subdued)— that the full hell 
Within me would infect the untainted breast 
Of sacred nature with its own unrest ; 
As some perverted beings think to find 
In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 
Which scorn or hate hath wounded. — O, how vain ! 
The dagger heals not, but may rend again. 
Believe that I am ever still the same 
In creed as in resolve ; and what may tame 
My heart, must leave the understanding free, 
Or all would sink under this agony. — 
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar eye, 
Or with my silence sanction tyranny, 
Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain 
In any madness which the world calls gain ; 
Ambition, or revenge, or thoughts as stern 
As those which make me what I am, or turn 
To avarice, or misanthropy, or lust : 
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust ! 
Till then the dungeon may demand its prey ; 
i^nd Poverty and Shame may meet and say, 
Halting beside me in the public way, — • 
' That love-devoted youth is ours : let's sit 
Beside him : he may live some six months yet.' — 
Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, 
May ask some willing victim ; or ye, friends. 
May fall under some soitow, wliich this heart 
Or hand may share, or vanquish, or avert; 
I am prepared, in truth, with no proud joy. 
To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 
I did devote to justice, and to love, 
My nature, worthless now. 

" I must remove 
A veil from my pent mhid. 'Tis torn aside ! 

! pallid as death's dedicated bride, 
Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, 
Am I not wan lUve thee 1 At the gi"ave's call 

1 haste, invited to thy wedding-ball, 

To meet the ghastly paramour, for whom 
Thou hast deserted me, — and made the tomb 
Thy bridal bed. But I beside thy feet 
Will lie, and watch ye fi-om my winding-sheet 
Thus — wide awake though dead — Yet stay, O, stay ! 
Go not so soon — I know not what I say — 
Hear but my reasons — I am mad, I fear, 
My fancy is o'erwTought — thou art not here, 
Pale art thou 'tis most true — but thou art gone — 
Thy work is finished ; I am left alone. 
****** 

" Nay was it I who woo'd thee to this breast 
Which like a serpent thou envenomest 



250 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



As in repayment of the warmth it lent 1 
Didst thou not seek me for thine own content ? 
Did not thy love awaken mine 1 I thought 
That thou wert she who said ' You kiss me not 
Ever ; I fear you do not love me now.' 
In truth I loved even to my overthrow 
Her who would fain forget these words, but they 
Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. 

« You say that I am proud ; that when I speak. 
My lip is tortured with the wrongs, which break 
The spirit it expresses. — Never one 
Humbled himself before, as I have done ; 
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread 
Turns, though it wound not — then, with prostrate 

head, 
Sinks in the dust, and writhes like me — and dies : 

No : — wears a living death of agonies ; 

As the slow shadows of the pointed grass 
Mark the eternal periods, its pangs pass, 
Slow, ever-moving, making moments be 
As mine seem, — each an immortality ; 

" That you had never seen me ! never heard 
My voice ! and more than all had ne'er endured 
The deep pollution of my loathed embrace ; 
That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face ! 
That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out 
The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root 
With mine own quivering fingers ! so that ne'er 
Our hearts had for a moment mingled there, 
To disunite in horror ! These were not 
With thee like some suppressed and hideous 

thought. 
Which flits athwart our musings, but can find 
No rest within a pure and gentle mind— 
Thou sealcdst them with many a bare broad word. 
And sear'dst my memory o'er them, — for I heard 
And can forget not — they were ministered, 
One after one, those curses. Mix them up 
Like self-destroying poisons in one cup ; 
And they will make one blessing, which thou ne'er 
Didst imprecate for on me death ! 

"It were 
A cruel punishment for one most cruel, 
If such can love, to make that love the fuel 
Of the mind's hell — hate, scorn, remorse, despair: 
But /ne, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear 
As water-drops the sandy fountain stone ; 
Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan 
For woes which others hear not, and could see 
The absent with the glass of phantasy. 
And near the poor and trampled sit and weep, 
Following the captive to his dungeon deep ; 
Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep 
The else-unfelt oppressions of this earth, 
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, 
When all beside was cold : — that thou on me 
Should rain these plagues of blistering agony — 
Such curses are from hps once eloquent 
With love's too partial praise ! Let none relent 
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name 
Henceforth, if an example for the same 



They seek : — for thou on me lookedst so and so, 
And didst speak thus and thus. I live to show 
How much men bear and die not 

****** 

« Thou wilt tell, 
With the grimace of hate, how horrible 
It was to meet my love when thine grew less ; 
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address 
Such features to love's work .... This taunt, 

though true, 
(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue 
Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) 
Shall not be thy defence : for since thy life 
Met mine first, years long past, — since thine eye 

kindled 
With soft fire under mine, — I have not dwindled, 
Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught 
But as love changes what it loveth not 
After long years and many trials. 
* * * * * t 

« How vain 
Are words ; I thought never to speak again. 
Not even in secret, not to my own heart — 
But from my lips the unwilling accents start. 
And from my pen the words flow as I write. 
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears — my sight 
Is dim to see that charactered in vain. 
On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain 
And eats into it, blotting all things fair, 
And wise and good, which time had written there. 
Those who inflict must sufler, for they see 
The work of their own hearts, and that must be 
Our chastisement or recompense. — O child ! 
I would that thine were like to be more mild 
For both our wretched sakcs, — for thine the most. 
Who fecl'st already all that thou hast lost, 
Without the power to wish it thine again. 
And, as slow years pass, a funereal train. 
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend 
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend 
No thought on my dead memory 1 



" Alas, love ! 
Fear me not: against thee I'd not move 
A finger in despite. Do I not live 
That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve *? 
I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate ; 
And, that thy lot may be less desolate 
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain 
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain. 
Then — when thou speakest of me — never say, 
' He could forgive not.' — Here I cast away 
All human passions, all revenge, all pride ; 
I think, speak, act no ill ; I do but hide 
Under these words, like embers, every spark 
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark 
The grave is yawning : — as its roof shall cover 
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over. 
So let oblivion hide this grief. — The air 
Closes upon my accents as despair 
Upon my heart — let death upon my care !" 

He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile; 
Then rising, with a melancholy smile, 



JULIAN AND MADDALO. 



251. 



Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept 
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept, 
And muttered some familiar name, and we 
Wept without shame in his society. 
I think I never was impressed so much ! 
The man, who was not, must have lacked a touch 
Of human nature. — Then we lingered not, 
Although our argument was quite forgot ; 
But, calling the attendants, went to dine 
At Maddalo's ; — yet neither cheer nor wine 
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him, 
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim. 
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill 
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable. 
By a dear friend ; some deadly change in love 
Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of; 
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot. 
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourished not 
But in the light of all-beholding truth ; 
And having stamped this canker on his youth, 
She had abandoned him : — and how much more 
Might be his wo, we guessed not ; — he had store 
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess 
From his nice habits and his gentleness : 
These now were lost — it were a grief indeed 
If he had changed one unsustaining reed 
For all that such a man might else adorn. 
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn ; 
For the wild language of his grief was high — ■ 
Such as in measure were called poetry. 
And I remember one remark, which then 
Maddalo made : he said — " Most wretched men 
Are cradled into poetry by wrong : 
They learn in sufieruig what they teach in song." 

If I had been an unconnected man, 

I, from the moment, should have formed some plan 

Never to leave sweet Venice : for to me 

It was delight to ride by the lone sea : 

And then the tovra is silent — one may write 

Or read in gondolas, by day or night. 

Having the little brazen lamp alight. 

Unseen, uninterrupted : — books are there. 

Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair 

Which were twin-born with poetry ! — and all 

We seek in towns, with little to recall 

Regi'et for the green country : — I might sit 

In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit 

And subtle talk would cheer the winter night, 

And make me know myself: — and the Are light 

Would flash upon our faces, till the day 

Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay. 

But I had friends in London too. The chief 

Attraction here was that I sought relief 

From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought 

Within me — 'twas perhaps an idle thought. 

But I imagined that if, day by day, 

I watched him, and seldom went away. 



And studied all the beatings of his heart 
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art 
For their own good, and could by patience find 
An entrance to the caverns of his mind, 
I might reclaim him from his dark estate. 
In friendships I had been most fortunate, 
Yet never saw I one whom I would call 
More wilUngly my friend : — and this was all 
Accomplished not ; — such dreams of baseless good 
Ofl come and go, in crowds or solitude. 
And leave no trace ! — but what I now designed 
Made, for long years, impression on my mind. 
The following morning urged by my afiairs, 
I left bright Venice. 

After many years, 
And many changes, I returned : the name 
Of Venice and its aspect was the same ; 
But Maddalo was travelling, far away, 
Among the mountains of Armenia. 
His dog was dead : his child had now become 
A woman, such as it has been my doom 
To meet with few ; a wonder of this eai-th. 
Where there is little of transcendent worth, — 
Like one of Shakspeare's women. Kindly she, 
And with a manner beyond courtesy. 
Received her flither's friend ; and, when I asked. 
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked. 
And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale : 
" That the poor suflerer's health began to fail 
Two years from my departure : but that then 
The lady, who had left him, came again. 
Her mien had been imperious, but she now 
Looked meek ; perhaps remorse had brought her 

low. 
Her coming made him better ; and they stayed 
Together at my father's, — for I played. 
As I remember, with the lady's shawl; 
I might be six years old: — But, aft;er all, 
She left him." 

« Why, her heart must have been tough ; 
How did it end ]" 

« And was not this enough 1 
They met, they parted." 

" Child, is there no more 1 

" Something within that interval which bore 
The stamp of whi/ they parted, /low they met ; — 
Yet, if thine aged eyes disdain to wet 
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered 

tears, 
Ask me no more ; but let the silent years 
Be closed and ccred over their memory. 
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie." 
I urged and questioned still : she told me how 
All happened — but the cold world shall not know. 



252 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES. 



Listen, listen, Mary mine. 

To the whisper of the Apennine, 

It bursts on the roof hke the thunder's roar, 

Or lilve the sea on a northern shore, 

Heard in its raging ebb and flow 

By the captives pent in the cave below. 

The Apennine in the light of day 

Is a mighty mountain dim and gray. 

Which between the earth and sky doth lay ; 

But when night comes, a chaos dread 

On the dim starlight then is spread. 

And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm. 

May 4th, 1818. 



THE PAST. 



Wilt thou forget the happy hours 
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers, 
Heaping over their corpses cold 
Blossoms and leaves instead of mould 1 
Blossoms which were the joys that fell, 
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain. 

Forget the dead, the past ! O yet 

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it ; 

Memories that make the heart a tomb. 

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, 

And wdtli ghastly whispers tell 

That joy, once lost, is pain. 



THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHT- 
INGALE. 



A WOODMAN, whose rough heart was out of tune 
(I think such hearts yet never came to good,) 
Hated to hear, under the stars or moon. 

One nightingale in an intcrfluous wood 
Satiate the hungry dark with melody ; — ■ 
And, as a vale is watered by a flood, 

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky 
Struggling with darkness — as a tuberose 
Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie 

Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, 
The singing of that happy nightingale 
In this sweet forest, from the golden close 



Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, 
Was interfused upon the silentness ; 
The folded roses and the violets pale 

Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss 
Of heaven with all its planets ; the dull ear 
Of the night-cradled earth ; the loneliness 

Of the circumfluous waters, — every sphere 
And every flower and beam and cloud and wave, 
And every wind of the mute atmosphere, 

And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, 
And every bird lulled on its mossy bough. 
And every silver moth, fresh from the gi'ave. 

Which is its cradle — ever from below 
Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far. 
To be consumed within the purest glow 

Of one serene and unapproached star, 
As if it were a lamp of earthly light. 
Unconscious as some human lovers are. 

Itself how low, how high, beyond all height 

The heaven where itwould perish ! — ^and every form 

That worshipped in the temple of the night 

Was awed into delight, and by the charm 

Girt as with an interminable zone. 

Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm 

Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion 
Out of their dreams; hai'mony became love 
In every soul but one. . . . 



And so this man returned with axe and saw 
At evening close from killing the tall treen. 
The soul of whom by nature's gentle law 

Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green 
The pavement and the roof of the wild copse. 
Chequering the sunlight of the blue serene 

With jagged leaves, — and from the forest tops 
Singing the winds to sleep — or weeping oft 
Fast showers of aerial water-drops, ■ 

Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft;. 
Nature's pure tears which have no bitterness ; — 
Around the cradles of the birds aloft 

They spread themselves into the loveliness 

Of fanlike leaves, and over pallid flowers 

Hang like moist clouds : orwhere high branches kiss, 

Make a green space among the silent bowers, 
Like a vast fane in a metropolis. 
Surrounded by the columns and the towers 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



353 



All overwrought with branchlike traceries 
In wliich there Is religion — and the mute 
Persuasion of unkindled melodies, 

Odours and gleams and murmurs, wliich the lute 
Of the bUnd pilot-spirit of the blast 
Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute. 

Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has past 
To such brief unison as on the brain 
One tone, which never can recur, has cast, 

One accent never to return again. 



TO MARY 



Mart dear, that 3'ou were here 
With your brown eyes bright and clear, 
And your sweet voice, Uke a bird 
Singing love to its lone mate 

In the ivy bower disconsolate ; 
Voice the sweetest ever heard ! 
And your brow more * * * 
Than the * * * sky 
Of this azure Italy. 
Mary dear, come to me soon, 

1 am not well whilst thou art far ; 
As sunset to the sphered moon, 
As twihght to the western stai', 
Thou, beloved, art to me. 

O Mary dear, that you were here ! 
The Castle echo whispers " Here !" 
EsTE, September, 1818. 



ON A FADED VIOLET. 

The colour from the flower is gone. 

Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me ; 

The odour from the flower is flown. 
Which breathed of thee and only thee ! 

A withered, Ufeless, vacant form. 
It lies on my abandoned breast. 

And mocks the heart which yet is warm 
With cold and silent rest. 

I weep — my tears revive it not. 

I sigh — 'it breathes no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 

Is such as mine should be. 



MISERY._A FRAGMENT. 



Come, be happy ! — sit near me, 
Shadow-ve-sted Misery : 
Coy, unwilling, silent bride. 
Mourning in thy robe of pride. 
Desolation — deified ! 



Come, be happy ! — sit near me : 
Sad as I may seem to thee, 
I am happier far than thou. 
Lady, whose imperial brow 
Is endiademed with wo. 

Misery ! we have known each other, 
Like a sister and a brother 
Living in the same lone home. 
Many years — we must Hve some 
Hours or ages yet to come. 

'Tis an evil lot, and yet 

Let us make the best of it ; 

If love can live when pleasure dies, 

We two will love, till in our eyes 

This heart's Hell seem Paradise. 

Come, be happy ! — lie thee down 
On the fresh grass newly mown. 
Where the grasshopper doth sing 
Merrily — one joyous thing 
In a world of sorrowing ! 

There our tent shall be the willow. 
And mine arm shall be thy pillow ; 
Sounds and odours, sorrowful 
Because they once were sweet, shall lull 
Us to slumber deep and dull. 

Ha ! thy frozen pulses flutter 
With a love thou dar'st not utter. 
Thou art murmuring — thou art weeping- 
Is thine icy bosom leaping 
While my burning heart lies sleeping ? 

Kiss me ; — oh ! thy lips are cold ; 
Round my neck thine arms enfold — ■ 
They are soft, but chill and dead ; 
And thy tears upon my head 
Burn like points of frozen lead. 

Hasten to the bridal bed — • 
Underneath the grave 'tis spread 
In darkness may our love be hid, 
Oblivion be our coverlid — ^ 
We may rest, and none forbid. 

Clasp me, till our hearts be grown 
Like two shadows into one ; 
Till this dreadful transport may 
Like a vapour fade away 
In the sleep that lasts alway. 

We may dream in that long sleep. 
That we are not those who weep ; 
Even as Pleasure dreams of thee. 
Life-deserting misery, 
Thou maycst dream of her with me. 

Let us laugh, and make our mirth, 
At the shadows of the earth, 
As dogs bay the moonlight clouds, 
Which, Uke spectres wrapt in shrouds, 
Pass o'er night in multitudes. 

All the wide world, beside us 
Show hke multitudinous 
Puppets passing from a scene ; 
What but mockciy can they mean, * 
Where I am — where thou hast been ? 
Y 



254 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 18. 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 

The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent light. 
The breath of the moist air is light, 

Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Lilce many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore. 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone. 

The lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measured motion. 
How sweet ! did any heart now share m my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around. 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found. 
And walked with inward glory crovraed — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air , 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I when tl:9s sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan ; 
They might lament — for I am one 

Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 
December, 1818. 



MAZENGHL* 

! foster-nurse of man's abandoned glory 
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendour, 
Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story, 
As Ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender : — 

* This fragment refers to an event, told in Sismondi's 
Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, which occurred 
during the vi^ar when Florence finally subdued Pisa, 
and reduced it to a province. The opening stanzas are 
addressed to the conquering city. — M. S. 



The light-invested angel Poesy 

Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee. 

And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught 

By loftiest meditations ; marble knew 

The sculptor's fearless soul — and, as he wrought. 

The grace of his own power and freedom grew. 

And more than all, heroic, just, sublime. 

Thou wert among the false — 'was this thy ciime 1 

Yes ; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine 
Of direst weeds hangs garlanded — the snake 
Inhabits its wrecked palaces ; — in thine 
A beast of subtler venom now doth make 
Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, 
And thus thy victim's fate is as thine own. 

The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare. 
And love and freedom blossom but to wither ; 
And good and ill like vines entangled are, 
So that their grapes may oft be plucked together ; — 
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make 
Thy heart rejoice for dead Mazenghi's sake. 

No record of his crime remains in story. 
But if the morning bright as evening shone, 
It was some high and holy deed, by glory 
Pursued into forgetfulness, which won 
From the blind crowd he made secure and free 
The patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy. 

For when by sound of trumpet was declared 
A price upon his life, and there was set 
A penalty of blood on all who shared 
So much of water with him as might wet 
His lips, which speech divided not — he went 
Alone, as you may guess, to banishment. 

Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast, 
He hid himself, and hunger, cold, and toil, 
Month after month endured ; it was a feast 
Whene'er he found those globes of deep red gold 
Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear, 
Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. 

And in the roofless huts of vast morasses, 
Deserted by the fever-stricken serf. 
All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses, 
And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf. 
And where the huge and speckled aloe made. 
Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade, 

He housed himself. There is a point of strand 
Near Vada's tower and town ; and on one side 
The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, 
Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide ; 
And on the other creeps eternally. 
Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea. 
Naples, 1818. 



SONG FOR TASSO. 

I LOTEit — alas ! our life is love; 

But when we cease to breathe and move, 

I do suppose love ceases too. 

I thought, but not as now I do. 

Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore, 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1818. 



255 



Of all that men had thought before, 
And all that Nature shows, and more. 

And still I love, and still I think. 
But strangely, for my heart can drink 
The dregs of such despair, and live, 
And love ; 

And if I think, my thoughts come fast ; 
I mix the present with the past, 
And each seems uglier than the last. 

Sometimes I see before me flee 

A silver spirit's form, like thee, 

O Leonora, and I sit 

[ ] still watching it. 

Till by the grated casement's ledge 

It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge 

Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge. 



SONNET. 

Lift not the painted veil which those who live 
Call Life ; though unreal shapes be pictured there, 
And it but mimic all we would beUeve 
With colours idly spread, — behind, lurk Fear 
And Hope, twin Destinies ; who ever weave 
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear. 

I knew one who had lifted it — he sought, 
For his lost heart was tender, things to love. 
But found them not, alas ! nor was there aught 
The world contains, the which he could approve. 
Through the unheeding many he did move, 
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot 
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove 
For truth, and, lilie the Preacher, found it not. 



NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1818. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



RosALiTfD A?fD Helen was begun at Marlow, 
and thrown aside — till I found it ; and, at my re- 
quest, it was completed. Shelley had no care for 
any of his poems that did not emanate from the 
depths of his mind, and develope some high or ab- 
struse truth. When he does touch on human life 
and the human heart, no pictures can be more 
faithful, more dehcate, more subtle, or more pa- 
thetic. He never mentioned Love, but he shed a 
grace, borrowed from his own nature, that scarcely 
any other poet has bestowed, on that passion. 
When he spoke of it as the law of life, which in- 
asmuch as we rebel against, we err and injure our- 
selves and others, he promulgated that which he 
considered an irrefragable truth. In his eyes it 
was the essence of our being, and all wo and 
pain arose from the war made against it by selfish- 
ness, or insensibility, or mistake. By reverting in 
his mind to this first principle, ho discovered the 
source of many emotions, and could disclose the 
secret of all hearts, and his delineations of passion 
and emotion touch the finest chords of our nature. 

Rosalind and Helen was finished during the 
summer of 1818, while we were at the Baths of 
Lucca. Thence Shelley visited Venice, and cir- 
cumstances rendering it eligible that we should 
remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that 
city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent 
him the use of a villa he rented near Este ; and 
he sent for his family from Lucca to join him. 

I Capucci li was a villa built on the site of a 



Capuchin convent, demolished when the French 
suppressed religious houses ; it was situated on the 
very over-hanging brow of a low hill at the foot 
of a range of higher ones. The house was cheer- 
ful and pleasant ; a vine-trellised walk, a Pergola, 
as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to 
a summer-house at the end of the garden, which 
Shelley made his study, and in which he began 
the Prometheus ; and here also, as he mentions in 
a letter, he WTote Julian and Maddalo ; a slight 
ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden 
from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the 
ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall 
gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined cre- 
vices, owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the 
crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy 
battlements. We looked from the garden over the 
wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by 
the far Apennines, while to the east, the horizon 
was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque 
but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut 
wood at the Baths of Lucca, there was something 
infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range 
of prospect commanded by our new abode. 

Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we 
soon suffered even more severely, happened here. 
Our little girl, an infant in whose small features I 
fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, 
showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the 
climate. Teething increased her illness and danger. 
We were at Este, and when we became alarmed, 
hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we 



256 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1818. 



arrived at Fusina, we foim J that we had forgotten 
our passport, and the soldiers on duty attempted to 
prevent our crossing the Laguna ; but they could 
not resist Shelley's impetuosity at such a moment. 
We had scarcely arrived at Venice, before life fled 
from the little sufferer, and we returned to Este to 
weep her loss. 

After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which 
were interspersed by visits to Venice, we proceeded 
southward. We often hear of persons disappointed 
by a first visit to Italy. This was not Shelley's 
case — the aspect of its nature, its sunny sky, its 
majestic storms ; of the luxuriant vegetation of the 
country, and the noble marble-built cities, en- 
chanted him. The sight of the works of art were 
full of enjoyment and wonder ; he had not studied 
pictures nor statues before, he now did so with the 
eye of taste, that referred not to the rules of 
schools, but to those of nature and truth. The 
first entrance to Rome opened to him a scene of 
remains of antique grandeur that far surpassed his 
expectations; and the unspeakable beauty of Naples 
and its environs added to the impression he re- 
ceived of the transcendant and glorious beauty 
of Italy. As I have said, he wrote long letters 
during the first year of our residence in this coun- 
try, and these, when published, will be the best 
testimonials of his appreciation of the harmonious 
and beautiful in art and nature, and his deUcate 
taste in discerning and describing them.* 

Our winter was spent at Naples. Here he wi-ote 
the fi-agments of Mazenghi and the Woodman and 
the Nightingale, which he afterwards threw aside. 
At this time Shelley suffered greatly in health. 
He put himself under the care of a medical man, 
who promised great things, and made him endure 
severe bodily pain, without any good results. 
Constant and poignant physical suffering exhausted 
him ; and though he preserved the appearance of 
cheerfulness, and often greatly enjoyed our wan- 
derings in the environs of Naples, and our excur- 
sions on the sunny sea, yet many hours were 
passed when his thoughts, shadowed by illness, be- 
came gloomy, and then he escaped to solitude, and 
in verses, which he hid from fear of wounding me, 
poured forth morbid but too natural bursts of dis- 
content and sadness. One looks back with un- 
speakable regret and gnawing remorse to such 
periods ; fancying that had one been more alive to 

♦These letters, together with various essays, trans- 
lations, and fragments, being the greater portion of the 
prose writings left by Shelley, are now in the press.— 
JH.S. 



the nature of his feelings, and more attentive to 
soothe them, such would not have existed — and 
yet enjoying, as he appeared to do, every sight or 
influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine 
that any melancholy he showed was aught but the 
effect of the constant pain to which he was a 
martyr. 

We lived in utter solitude — and such is often 
not the nurse of cheerfulness ; for then, at least 
with those who have been exposed to adversity, 
the mind broods over its sorrows too intently ; while 
the society of the enlightened, the witty, and the 
wise, enables us to forget ourselves by making us 
the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a 
portion of the philosophy of happiness. Shelley 
never hked society in numbers, it harassed and 
wearied him; but neither did he like Irsnehness, 
and usually when alone sheltered himself against 
memory and reflection, in a book. But with one 
or two whom he loved, he gave way to wild and 
joyous spirits, or in more serious conversation ex- 
pounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence. 
If an argument arose, no m.an ever argued better — 
he was clear, logical, and earnest, in supporting 
his own views ; attentive, patient, and impartial, 
while listening to those on the adverse side. Had 
not a wall of prejudice been raised at this time 
between him and his countrymen, how many 
would have sought the acquaintance of one, whom 
to know was to love and to revere ! how many of 
the more enlightened of his contemporaries have 
since regretted that they did not seek him ! how 
very few knew his worth while he lived, and of 
those few, several were withheld by timidity or 
envy firom declaring their sense of it. But no man 
was ever more enthusiastically loved — more looked 
up to as one superior to his fellows in intellectual 
endowments and moral worth, by the few who luiew 
him well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to 
appreciate his superiority. His excellence is now 
acknowledged ; but even while admitted, not duly 
appreciated. For who, except those who were 
acquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied 
benevolence, his generosity, his systematic forbear- 
ance 1 And still less is his vast superiority in in- 
tellectual attainments sufficiently understood — his 
sagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, liis 
prodigious memory ; all these, as displayed in con- 
versation, were known to few while he lived, and 
are now silent in the tomb : 

Ahi orbo mondo ingrato, 

Gran cagion hai di dever pianger meco. 

Che quel ben ch' era in te, perdut' hai seco. 



POEMS WEITTEN IN MDCCCXIX. 


THE MASQUE OF ANARCHY. 
— * — 


I. 

As I lay asleep in Italy, 
There came a voice from over the sea, 
And with great povs^er it forth led me 
To walk in the visions of Poesy. 


X. 

With a pace stately and fast, 
Over English land he past, 
Trampling to a mire of blood 
The adoring multitude. 


ir. 

I met Murder on the way — 
He had a mask like Castlereagh — 
Very smoothe he looked, yet grim ; 
Seven bloodliounds followed him : 


XI. 

And a mighty troop around, 

With their trampling shook the ground, 

Waving each a bloody sword. 

For the service of their Lord. 


III. 

All were fat ; and well they might 

Be in admirable plight. 

For one by one, and two by two. 

He tossed them human hearts to chew, 

Which from his wide cloak he drew. 


XII. 

And, with glorious triumph, they 
Rode through England, proud and gay. 
Drunk as with intoxication 
Of the wine of desolation. 


IV. 

Next came Fraud, and he had on, 

Like Lord E , an ermine gown ; 

His big tears, for he wept well, 
Turned to millstones as they fell ; 


O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea. 
Passed the pageant swift and free. 
Tearing up and trampling down. 
Till they came to London town. 


T. 

And the little children, who 

Round his feet played to and fro. 

Thinking every tear a gem, 

Had their brains knocked out by them. 


And each dweller, panic-stricken. 
Felt his heart with terror sicken. 
Hearing the tremendous cry 
Of the triumph of Anarchy. 

XV. 


VI. 

Clothed with the bible as with light, 
And the shadow of the night. 
Like S * * * next. Hypocrisy, 
On a crocodile came by. 


For with pomp to meet him came, 
Clothed in arms like blood and flame. 
The hired murderers who did sing, 
« Thou art God, and Law, and King. 


VII. 

And many more Destructions played 
In this ghastly masquerade, 
All disguised, even to the eyes. 
Like bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. 


« We have waited, weak and lone, 
For thy coming, Mighty One ! 
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, 
Give us glory, and blood, and gold." 


viir. 
Last came Anarchy ; he rode 
On a white horse splashed with blood ; 
He was pale even to the lips, 
Like Death in the Apocalypse. 


XVII. 

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, 
To the earth their pale brows bowed. 
Like a bad prayer not over loud, 
Whispering, — " Thou art Law and God !" 


IX. 

And he wore a kingly crown ; 
In his hand a sceptre shone ; 
On his brow this mark I saw — 
"I am God, and King, and Law !" 
33 


XVIII. 

Then all cried with one accord, 
■<Thou art King, and Law, and Lord ; 
Anarchy, to thee we bow. 
Be thy name made holy now !" 

Y 2 25r 



258 



POEMS WRITTEJV IN 18 19. 



And Anarchy, the skeleton, 
Bowed and grinned to every one, 
As well as if his education 
Had cost ten millions to the nation. 



For he knew the palaces 
Of our kings were nightly his ; 
His the sceptre, crown, and globe, 
And the gold-inwoven robe. 



So he sent his slaves before 
To seize upon the Bank and Tower, 
And was proceeding with intent 
To meet his pensioned parliament, 

XXII. 

When one fled past, a maniac maid, 
And her name was Hope, she said : 
But she looked more like Despair ; 
And she cried out in the air : 



« My father, Time, is weak and gray 
With waiting for a better day ; 
See how idiot-like he stands. 
Trembling with his palsied hands ! 



"He has had child after child, 
And the dust of death is piled 
Over every one but me — 
Misery ! oh, misery !" 



Then she lay down in the street. 
Eight before the horses' feet. 
Expecting with a patient eye, 
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy. 

XXTI. 

When between her and her foes 
A mist, a light, an image rose, 
Small at first, and weak and frail 
Like the vapour of the vale : 

XXTII. 

Till as clouds grow on the blast, 
Lilie tower-crowned giants striding fast. 
And glare with lightuings as they fly. 
And speak in thunder to the sky, 



It grew — a shape arrayed in mail 
Brighter than the viper's scale. 
And upborne on wings whose grain 
Was like the Ught of sunny rain. 



On its helm, seen far away, 

A planet, like the morning's, lay ; 

And those plumes it light rained through. 

Like a shower of crimson dew. 



With step as soft as wind it passed 
O'er the heads of men — so fast 
That they knew the presence there, 
And looked — and all was empty air. 

XXXI. 

As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken, 
As stars from night's loose hair are shaken. 
As waves arise when loud winds call. 
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. 



And the prostrate multitude 
Looked — and ankle-deep in blood, 
Hope, that maiden most serene, 
Was walking with a quiet mien : 



And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, ■ 

Lay dead earth upon the earth ; 

The Horse of Death, tameless as wind. 

Fled, and with his hoofs did grind 

To dust the murderers thronged behind. 



A rushing light of clouds and splendour, 
A sense, awakening and yet tender, 
Was heard and felt — and at its close 
These words of joy and fear arose : 

XXXV. 

As if their own indignant earth. 
Which gave the sons of England birth, 
Had felt their blood upon her brow, 
And shuddering with a mother's throe. 



Had turned every drop of blood. 

By which her face had been bedewed, 

To an accent unwithstood, 

As if her heart had cried aloud : 



"Men of England, Heirs of Glory, 
Heroes of unwritten story. 
Nurslings of one mighty mother, 
Hopes of her, and one another ! 

XXXTIII. 

« Rise, like lions after slumber. 
In unvanquishable number. 
Shake your chains to earth like dew, 
Which in sleep had fitll'n on you. 
Ye are many, they are few. 

XXXIX. 

" What is Freedom 1 Ye can tell 
That which Slavery is too well, 
For its very name has grown 
To an echo of your own. 
xi. 

« 'Tis to work, and have such pay 
As just keeps life from day to day 
In your limbs as in a cell 
For the tyrant's use to dwell : 



THE MASQUE OF ANARCHY. 



259 



XLI. 

« So that ye for them are made, 
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade ; 
With or without your own will, bent 
To their defence and nourishment. 



« Tis to see your children weak, 
With their mothers pine and peak, 
When the winter winds are bleak : — 
They are dying whilst I speak. 

XLIII. 

"'Tis to hunger for such diet, 
As the rich man in his riot 
Casts to the fat dogs that lie 
Surfeiting beneath his eye. 

XLIT. 

"'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold 
Take from toil a thousand-fold 
More than e'er its substance could 
In the tyrannies of old : 

XLV. 

" Paper coin — that forgery 
Of the title deeds, which ye 
Hold to something of the worth 
Of the inheritance of Earth. 

XLTI. 

« 'Tis to be a slave in soul, 
And to hold no strong control 
Over your own wills, but be 
All that others make of ye. 

XLTII. 

" And at length when ye complain, 
With a murmur weak and vain, 
'Tis to see the tyrant's crew 
Ride over your wives and you : — 
Blood is on the grass like dew ! 

XLVIII. 

"Then it is to feel revenge, 
Fiercely thirsting to exchange 
Blood for blood — and wrong for wrong: 
Do not thus when ye are strong ! 

XLIX. 

« Birds find rest in narrow nest. 
When weary of their winged quest ; 
Beasts find fare in woody lair. 
When storm and snow are in the air. 



"Horses, oxen, have a home. 
When from daily toil they come ; 
Household dogs, when the wind roars. 
Find a home witliin warm doors. 



"Asses, swine, have litter spread, 
And with fitting food are fed ; 
All things have a home but one : 
Thou, O Enghshman, hast none ! 



i'This is slavery — savage men, 
Or wild beasts within a den. 
Would endure not as ye do : 
But such ills they never knew. 



■■' What art thou, Freedom 1 Oh ! could slaves 
Answer fi-om their living graves 
This demand, tyrants would flee 
Like a dream's dim unagery. 



"Thou art not, as impostors say, 
A shadow soon to pass away, 
A superstition, and a name 
Echouig from the cave of Fame. 



"For the labourer thou art bread 
And a comely table spread. 
From his daily labour come, 
In a neat and happy home. 



"Thou art clothes, and fire and food 
For the trampled multitude : 
No — in countries that are free 
Such starvation cannot be. 
As in England now we see. 



« To the rich thou art a check ; 
When his foot is on the neck 
Of his victim, thou dost make 
That he treads upon a snake. 



"Thou art Justice — ne'er for gold 
May thy righteous laws be sold 
As laws are in England : — thou 
Shieldest ahke the high and low. 



" Thou art Wisdom — freemen never 
Dream that God will doom for ever 
All who think those things untrue, 
Of which priests make such ado. 

tx. 

" Thou art Peace — never by thee 
Would blood and treasure wasted be. 
As tyrants wasted them, when all 
Leagued to quench thy flame m Gaul. 

Lxr. 

"What if Enghsh toil and blood 
Was poured forth, even as a flood ] 
It availed. — Liberty ! 
To dim — ^but not extinguish thee. 



"Thou art Love — the rich have kist 
Thy feet ; and lilce him following Christ, 
Given their substance to the free. 
And through the rough world followed thee. 



260 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 



" Oh turn their wealth to arms, and make 
War for thy beloved sake, 
On wealth, and war, and fraud ; whence they 
Drew the power which is their prey. 

LXIT. 

« Science, and Poetry, and Thought, 
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot 
Of the dwellers in a cot 
Such, they curse their maker not. 

LXV. 

"Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, 
All that can adorn and bless. 
Art thou : let deeds, not words, express 
Thine exceeding loveliness. 

LXVI. 

« Let a great assembly be 
Of the fearless and the free. 
On some spot of English ground. 
Where the plains stretch wide around. 



■■' Let the blue sky overhead. 
The green earth on which ye tread, 
All that must eternal be. 
Witness the solemnity. 



"From the corners uttermost 
Of the bounds of English coast; 
From every hut, village and town. 
Where those who live and suffer moan 
For others' misery, or their own : 



" From the workhouse and the prison, 
Where pale as corpses newly risen, 
Women, children, young and old, 
Groan for pain, and weep for cold ; 



« From the haunts of daily life. 
Where is waged the daily strife 
With common wants and common cares, 
WMch sow the human heart with tares. 

LXXI. 

« Lastly, from the palaces, 
Where the murmur of distress 
Echoes, like the distant sound 
Of a wind, alive around ; 

LXXII. 

« Those prison-halls of wealth and fashion, 
Where some few feel such compassion 
For those who groan, and toil, and wail. 
As must make their brethren pale ; 

I.XXIII. 

« Ye who suffer woes untold. 
Or to feel, or to behold 
Your lost country bought and sold 
With a price of blood and gold. 



" Let a vast assembly be. 
And with great solemnity 
Declare with ne'er said words, that ye 
Are, as God has made ye, free. 

IXXV. 

"Be your strong and simple words 
Keen to wound as sharpened swords, 
And wide as targes let them be. 
With their shade to cover ye. 

XXXVI. 

"Let the tyrants pour around 
With a quick and startling sound. 
Like the loosening of a sea. 
Troops of armed emblazonry. 



" Let the charged artillery drive. 
Till the dark air seems alive 
With the clash of clanging wheels. 
And the tramp of horses' heels. 



"Let the fixed bayonet 
Gleam with sharp desire to wet 
Its bright point in English blood. 
Looking keen as one for food. 



"Let the horsemen's cimeters 
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars. 
Thirsting to eclipse their burning 
In a sea of death and mourning. 



" Stand ye firm and resolute. 
Like a forest close and mute. 
With folded arms, and looks which are 
Weapons of an un vanquished war. 

LXXXI. 

" And let Panic, who outspeeds 
The career of armed steeds. 
Pass, a disregarded shade, 
Through your phalanx midismayed. 



" Let the laws of your own land. 
Good or ill, between ye stand. 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot, 
Arbiters of the dispute. 



"The old laws of England — they 
Whose reverend heads with age are gray. 
Children of a wiser day ; 
And whose solemn voice must be 
Thine own echo — Liberty ! 

IXXXIV. 

" On those who first should violate 
Such sacred heralds in their state. 
Rest the blood that must ensue ; 
And it will not rest on you. 



THE MASQUE OF ANARCHY. 



261 



« And if then the tyrants dare, 
Let them ride among you there ; 
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew ; 
What they like, that let them do. 

LXXXTI. 

" With folded arms and steady eyes, 
And little fear, and less surprise. 
Look upon them as they slay. 
Till their rage has died away : 



«' Then they will return with shame, 
To the place from which they came, 
And the blood thus shed will speak 
In hot blushes on their cheek 

XXXXVIII. 

« Every woman in the land 
Will point at them as they stand— 
They will hardly dare to greet 
Their acquaintance in the street : 



"And the bold true warriors. 
Who have hugged danger in the wars. 
Will turn to those who would be free. 
Ashamed of such base company : 

xc. 

« And that slaughter to the nation 
Shall steam up like inspiration, 
Eloquent, oracular, 
A volcano heard afar : 



« And these words shall then become 
Like Oppression's thundered doom. 
Ringing through each heart and brain. 
Heard again — again — again ! 

XCII. 

"Rise, like lions after slumber 
In unvanquishable number ! 
Shake your chains to earth, like dew 
Which in sleep had fallen on you : 
Ye are many — they are few !" 



262 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ. 



It is a party in a parlour. 

Crammed just as they on earth were crammed, 
Some sipping puncii — some sipping tea ; 
But as you by tlieir faces see, 

All silent, and all damned ! 

Peter Bell, by W. Wordswobth. 

OPHELIA. — What means this, my lord 1 

HAMLET.— Marry, this is Miching Mallecho ; it means mischief. 

Shakspeare. 



DEDICATION. 

TO THOMAS BROWN, ESQ., THE YOUNGER, H. F. 

Dear Tom, 

Allow me to request you to intro- 
duce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable family of 
the Fudges ; although he may fall short of those 
very considerable personages in the more active 
properties which characterize the Rat and the Apos- 
tate, I suspect that even you, their historian, will 
confess that he surpasses them in the more pecu- 
liarly legitimate qualification of intolerable dulness. 

You know Mr. Examiner Hunt ; well — it was 
he who presented me to two of the Mr. Bells. 
My intimacy with the younger Mr. Bell naturally 
sprung from this introduction to his brothers. And 
in presenting him to you, I have the satisfaction 
of being alile to assure you that he is considerably 
the dullest of the three. 

There is this particular advantage in an acquaint- 
ance with any one of the Peter Bells, that if you 
know one Peter Bell, you know three Peter 
Bells ; they are not one, but three ; not three, but 
one. An awful mystery, which, after having caused 
torrents of blood, and having been hymned by 
groans enough to deafen the music of the spheres, 
is at length illustrated to the satisfaction of all 
parties in the theological world, by the nature of 
Mr. Peter Bell. 

Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with 
many sides. He changes colours like a chameleon, 



and his coat like a snake. He is a Proteus of a 
Peter. He was at first sublime, pathetic, impres- 
sive, profound ; then dull ; then prosy and dull ; 
and now dull — 0, so very dull ! it is an ultra-le- 
gitimate dulness. 

You will perceive that it is not necessary to con- 
sider Hell and the Devil as supernatural machinery. 
The whole scene of my epic is in " this world 
which is" — So Peter informed us before his con- 
version to White Obi 

The world of all of us, and where 

We find our happiness, or not at all. 

Let me observe that I have spent .six or seven 
days in composing this sublime piece ; the orb of 
my moonlight genius has made the fourth part of 
its revolution round the dull earth which you in- 
habit, driving you mad, while it has retained its 
calmness and its splendour, and I have been fitting 
this its last phase " to occupy a permanent station 
in the literature of my country." 

Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better; but 
mine are far superior. The public is no judge ; 
posterity sets all to rights. 

Allow me to observe that so much has been 
written of Peter Bell, that the present history can 
be considered only, like the Iliad, as a continuation 
of that series of cyclic poems, which have already 
been candidates for bestowing immortality upon, 
at the same time that they receive it fi-om, his cha- 
racter and adventures. In this point of view, I have 
violated no rule of syntax in beginning my composi- 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



263 



tion with a conjunction : the full stop which closes 
the poem continued by me, being, like the full 
stops at the end of the Iliad and the Odyssey, a 
full stop of a very qualified import. 

Hoping that the immortality which you have 
given to the Fudges, you will receive from them ; 
and in the firm expectation, that when London 
shall be a habitation of bitterns, when St. Paul's 
and Westminster Abbey shall stand, shapeless and 
nameless ruins, in the midst of an unpeopled 
marsh ; when the piers of Waterloo-Bridge shall 
become the nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and 
cast the jagged shadows of their broken arches on 



the solitary stream, some transatlantic commentator 
will be weighing in the scales of some new and 
now unimagined system of criticism, the respective 
merits of the Bells and the Fudges, and their 
historians, 

I remain, dear Tom, 
Yours sincerely, 

MiCHING MaLLECHO. 

Decemier 1, 1819. 

P. S. — Pray excuse the date of place ; so soon 
as the profits of the publication come in, I mean to 
hire lodgings in a more respectable street. 



CONTENTS. 



Prologue. 
Death. 
The Devii.. 



Heli. 

Sin. 
Grace. 



Damjtatiojt. 
Double Damnatioit. 



PROLOGUE. 



Peter Bells, one, two and three. 

O'er the wide world wandering be.— 

First, the antenatal Peter, 

Wrapt in weeds of the same metre, 

The so long predestined raiment 

Clothed, in which to walk his way meant 

The second Peter ; whose ambition 

Is to link the proposition. 

As the mean of two extremes — 

(This was learnt from Aldric's themes) 

Shielding from the guilt of schism 

The orthodoxal syllogism; 

The First Peter — he who was 

Like the shadow in the glass 

Of the second, yet unripe, 

His substantial antitype. — 

Then came Peter Bell the Second, 

Who henceforward must be reckoned 

The body of a double soul, 

And that portion of the whole 

Without which the rest would seem 

Ends of a disjointed dream. — • 

And the Third is he who has 

O'er the grave been forced to pass 



To the other side, which is, — 
Go and try else, — just like this. 

Peter Bell the First was Peter 
Smugger, milder, softer, neater, 
Like the soul before it is 
Born fi'om that world into this. 
The next Peter Bell was he, 
Predevote, like 3'OU and me. 
To good or evil as may come ; 
His was the severer doom, — 
For he was an e^^l Cotter, 
And a polygamic Potter.* 
And the last is Peter Bell, 
Damned since our first parents fell, 
Damned eternally to Hell — 
Surely he deserves it well ! 

* The oldest scholiasts read — 

A dodecagamic Potter. 

This is at once more descriptive and more megalopho- 
nous — bat the alliteration of the text had captivated the 
vulgar ear of the herd of later commentators. 



264 POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 


PART THE FIRST. 


Wcali). 


An-d Peter Bell, when he had been 
With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed, 

Grew serious — from his dress and mien 

'Twas very plainly to be seen 
Peter was quite reformed. 


And all the rest rushed through the door, 

And tumbled over one another. 
And broke their skulls. — Upon the floor 
Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore, 
And cursed his father and his mother ; 


His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down ; 

His accent caught a nasal twang ; 
He oiled his hair,* there might be heard 
The grace of God in every word 

Which Peter said or sang. 


And raved of God, and sin, and death. 

Blaspheming like an infidel ; 
And said, that with his clenched teeth, 
He'd seize the earth from underneath, 
And drag it with him down to hell. 


But Peter now grew old, and had 
An ill no doctor could unravel ; 
His torments almost drove him mad ;— 
Some said it was a fever bad — 
Some swore it was the gravel. 


As he was speaking came a spasm. 

And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder ; 
Like one who sees a strange phantasm 
He lay, — there was a silent chasm 
Between his upper jaw and under. 


His holy friends then came about. 

And with long preaching and persuasion, 

Convinced the patient that, without 

The smallest shadow of a doubt, 
He was predestined to damnation. 


And yellow death lay on his face ; 

And a fixed smile that was not human 
Told, as I understand the case. 
That he was gone to the wrong place : — 

I heard all this fi'om the old woman. 


They said — « Thy name is Peter Bell ; 

Thy skin is of a brimstone hue ; 
Alive or dead — ay, sick or well — 
The one God made to rhyme with hell ; 

The other, I think, rhymes with you." 


Then there came down from Langdale Pike 
A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail ; 

It swept over the mountains like 

An ocean, — and I heard it strike 

The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. 


Then Peter set up such a yell ! 

The nurse, who with some water gruel 
Was climbing up the stairs, as well 
As her old legs could climb them — fell, 

And broke them both — the fall was cruel. 


And I saw the black storm come 

Nearer, minute after minute ; ' 
Its thunder made the cataracts dumb; 
With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum. 

It neared as if the Devil was in it. 


The Parson from the casement leapt 

Into the lake of Windermere — 
And many an eel — though no adept 
In God's right reason for it — kept 
Gnawing his kidneys half a year. 


The Devil was in it : — he had bought 

Peter for half-a-crown ; and when 
The storm which bore Mm vanished, nought 
That in the house that storm had caught 
Was ever seen again. 

The gaping neighbours came next day — 

They found all vanished from the shore : 
The Bible, whence he used to pray. 
Half scorched under a hen-coop lay ; 
Smashed glass — and nothing more ! 


* To those who have not duly appreciated the distinc- 
tion between Wliale and Russia oil, this attribute might 
rather seem to belong to the Dandy than the Evangelic. 
The effect, when to the windward, is indeed so similar, 
that it requires a subtle naturalist to discriminate the 
animals. They belong, however, to distinct genera. 




! 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



265 



PART THE SECOND. 

©be X3ml 



The Devil, I safely can aver, 

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting ; 

Nor is he, as some sages swear, 

A spirit, neither here nor there, 
In nothing — yet hi every thing. 

He is — what we are ; for sometimes 

The Devil is a gentleman ; 
At others a bard, bartering rhymes 
For sack ; a statesman spinning crimes ; 

A swindler, living as he can ; 

A thief, who cometh in the night. 

With whole boots and net pantaloons, 
Like some one whom it were not right 
To mention ; — or the luckless wight, 
From whom he steals nine silver spoons. 

But in this case he did appear 

Like a slop-merchant from Wapping, 

And with smug face, and eye severe. 

On every side did perk and peer 
Till he saw Peter dead or napping. 

He had on an upper Benjamin 

(For he was of the driving schism) 

In the which he wrapt his skin 

From the storm he travelled in, 
For fear of rheumatism. 

He called the ghost out of the corse ; — 

It was exceedingly like Peter, — ■ 
Only its voice was hollow and hoarse- 
It had a queerish look of course — 
Its dress too was a little neater. 

The Devil knew not his name and lot ; 

Peter knew not that he was Bell ; 
Each had an upper stream of thought, 
Which made all seem as it was not ; 

Fitting itself to all things welL 



Peter thought he had parents dear. 
Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies, 

In the fens of Lincolnshire ; 

He perhaps had found them there 
Had he gone and boldly shown his 

Solemn phiz in his own village ; 

Where he thought oft when a boy 
He'd clomb the orchard walls to pillage 
The produce of his neighbour's tillage, 

With marvellous pride and joy. 

And the Devil thought he had, 

'Mid the misery and confusion 
Of an unjust war, just made 
A fortune by the gainful trade 
Of giving soldiers rations bad — ■ 

The world is full of strange delusion. 

That he had a mansion planned 

In a square like Grosvenor-square, 
That he was aping fashion, and 
That he now came to Westmorland 
To see what was romantic there. 

And all this, though quite ideal, — 
Ready at a breath to vanish, — ■ 
Was a state not more unreal 
Than the peace he could not feel, 
Or the care he could not banish. 

After a little conversation. 

The Devil told Peter, if he chose. 

He'd bring him to the world of fashion 

By giving him a situation 

In his own service — and new clothes. 

And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud, 
And after waiting some few days 

For a new livery — dirty yellow 

Turned up with black — the wretched fellow 
Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise. 



PART THE THIRD. 

mi 



HEtL is a city much like London — 

A populous and a smoky city ; 
There are all sorts of people undone, 
And there is little or no fun done ; 

Small justice shown, and still less pity. 
34 



There is a Castles, and a Canning, 

A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh ; 

All sorts of caitiff corpses planning. 

All sorts of cozeining for trepanning 

Corpses less corrupt than they. 

z 



266 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819. 



There is a * * * , who has lost 

His wits, or sold them, none knows which ; 
He walks about a double ghost, 
And though as thin as Fraud abnost — 

Ever grows more grim and rich. 

There is a Chancery Court ; a King ; 

A manufacturing mob ; a set 
Of thieves who by themselves are sent 
Similar thieves to represent ; 

An army ; and a public debt. 

Which last is a scheme of paper money, 

And means — being interpreted — 
Bees " keep your wax — give us the honey, 
And we will plant, while skies are sunny, 
Flowers, which in winter serve instead." 

There is great talk of revolution — • 

And a great chance of despotism — 
German soldiers — camps — confusion — 
Tumults — lotteries — rage — delusion — ■ 
Gin — suicide — and methodism. 

Taxes too, on wine and bread. 

And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese, 
From which those patriots pure are fed, 
Who gorge before they reel to bed 

The tenfold essence of all these. 

There are mincing women, mewing, 
(Like cats, who amant miser e,*) 

Of their own virtue, and pursuing 

Their gentler sisters to that ruin. 

Without which — ^what where chastity If 

Lawyers — -judges — old hobnobbers 

Are there — ^bailiffs — chancellors — ■ 
Bishops — great and little robbers — • 
Rhymesters — pamphleteers — 'stock-jobbers — 
Men of glory in the wars, — 

Things whose trade is, over ladies 

To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper, 
Till all that is divine in woman 
Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman, 
Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper. 

Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling, 

Frovsming, preaching — such a riot ! 
Each with never-ceasing labour, 
Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour, 
Cheating his own heart of quiet. 

♦One of the attributes in Linnteus's description of 
the Cat. To a similar cause the caterwauling of more 
than one species of this genus is to be referred; — ex- 
cept, indeed, that the poor quadruped is compelled to 
quarrel with its own pleasures, whilst the biped is 
supposed only to quarrel with those of others. 

t What would this husk and excuse for a virtue be 
without its kernel prostitution, or the kernel prostitu- 
tion without this husk of a virtue "J I wonder the 
women of the town do not form an association, like 
the Society for the Suppression of Vice, for the support 
of what may be called the " King, Church, and Consti- 
tution" of their order. But this subject is almost too 
horrible for a joke. 



And all these meet at levees ; — 

Dinners convivial and political ; — 
Suppers of epic poets; — teas. 
Where small talk dies in agonies ; — i 
Breakfasts professional and critical ; 

Lunches and snacks so aldcrmanic 

That one would furnish forth ten dinners. 
Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic. 
Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic 

Should make some losers, and some winners 

At conversazioni — balls — 

Conventicles — and drawing-rooms — 
Courts of law — committees — calls 
Of a morning — clubs — book-stalls — i 

Churches — masquerades — and tombs. 

And this is Hell — -and in this smother 

All are damnable and damned ; 
Each one damning, damns the other; 
They are damned by one another, 

By none other are they damned. 

'Tis a lie to say, " God damns !"* 

Where was Heaven's Attorney-General 

When they first gave out such flams 1 

Let there be an end of shams, 

They are mines of poisonous mineraL 

Statesmen damn themselves to be 

Cursed ; and lawyers damn their souls 

To the auction of a fee ; 

Churclunen damn themselves to see 
God's sweet love in burning coals. 

The rich are damned, beyond all cure, 

To taunt, and starve, and trample on 
The weak and wretched ; and the poor 
Damn their broken hearts to endure 
Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan. 

Sometimes tlie poor are damned indeed 

To take, — not means for being blest, — 
But Cobbett's snuif, revenge ; that weed 
From which the worms that it doth feed 
Squeeze less than they before possessed. 

And some few, like we know who, 

Damned — 'but God alone knows why — • 

To believe their minds are given 

To make this ugly Hell a Heaven ; 
In which faith they live and die. 

Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken. 

Each man be he sound or no 
Must indifferently sicken ; 
As when day begins to thicken, 

None knows a pigeon from a crow, — 



* This libel on our national oath, and this accusation of 
all our countrymen of being in the daily practice of 
solemnly asseverating the most enormous falsehood, I 
fear deserves the notice of a more active Attorney-Gen- 
eral than that here alluded to. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



J67 



So good and bad, sane and mad, 

The oppressor and the oppressed; 
Those who weep to see what others 
Smile to inflict upon their brothers ; 
Lovers, haters, worst and best ; 



All are damned — they breathe an air, 

Thick, infected, joy-dispelling : 
Each pursues what seems most fair, 
Mining like moles, through mind, and there 
Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care 
In throned state is ever dwelling. 



PART THE FOURTH. 

Qin. 



Lo, Peter in Hell's Grosvenor-square, 
A footman in the devil's service ! 

And the misjudging world would swear 

That every man in service there 
To virtue would prefer vice. 

But Peter though now damned, was not 

What Peter was before damnation. 
Men oftentimes prepare a lot 
Which ere it finds them, is not what 
Suits with their genuine station. 

All things that Peter saw and felt 

Had a peculiar aspect to him ; 
And when they came within the belt 
Of his own nature, seemed to melt. 

Like cloud to cloud, into liim. 

And so the o\itward world uniting 

To that witliin him, he became 
Considerably uninviting 
To those, who meditation slighting, 

Were moulded in a different frame. 

And he scorned them, and they scorned him ; 

And he scorned all they did ; and they 
Did all that men of their own trim 
Are wont to do to please their whim, 

Driiaking, lying, swearing, play. 

Such were liis fellow-servants ; thus 
His virtue, like our own was built 

Too much on that indignant fuss 

Hj'pocrite Pride stirs up in us 
To bully out another's guilt. 

He had a mind which was somehow 
At once circumference and centre 

Of all he might or feel or know ; 

Nothing went ever out, although 
Something did ever enter. 

He had as much imagination 

As a pint-pot : — he never could 
Fancy another situation. 
From which to dart his contemplation, 

Than that wherein he stood. 



Yet his was individual mind. 

And new created all he saw 
In a new manner, euid refined 
Those new creations, and combined 

Them, by a master-spirit's law. 

Thus — though unimaginative — 

An apprehension clear, intense. 
Of his mind's work, had made alive 
The things it wrought on ; I beheve 

Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 

But from the first 'twas Peter's drift 

To be a kind of moral eunuch. 
He touched the hem of nature's shifl, 
Felt faint — and never dared uplift 

The closest, all-concealing tunic- 
She laughed the while, with an arch smile, 

And Idssed him with a sister's kiss, 
And said — " My best Diogenes, 
I love you well — but, if you please, 

Tempt not again my deepest bliss. 

« 'Tis you are cold — for I, not coy. 

Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true ; 

And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy — . 

His errors prove it — knew my joy 
More, learned friend, than you. 

" Bocca hacciata non perde ventura 

Ami rlnnuova come fa la luna: — 
So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might 

cure a 
Male prude, like you, from what you now en- 
dure, a 
Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna." 

Then Peter rubbed his e5-es severe, 

And smoothed his spacious forehead down, 
With his broad palm ; — 'twixt love and fear, 
He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, 
And in his dream sate down. 

The devil was no uncommon creature ; 

A leaden-witted thief— just huddled 
Out of the dross and scum of nature ; 
A toadlike lump of limb and feature. 

With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. 



268 POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 


He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, 


And men of learning, science, wit, 


The spirit of evil well may be : 


Considered him as you and I 


A drone too base to have a sting ; 


Think of some rotten tree, and sit 


Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, 


Lounging and dining under it. 


And calls lust, luxury. 


Exposed to the wide sky. 


Now he was quite the kind of wight 


And all the while with loose fat smile. 


Round whom collect, at a fixed aera, 


The willing wretch sat winking there, 


Venison, turtle, hock, and claret, — 


Believmg 'twas his power that made 


Good cheer — and those who come to share it — 


That jovial scene — and that all paid 


And best East Imiian madeira! 


Homage to his unnoticed chair. 


It was his fancy to invite 


Though to be sure this place was Hell ; 


Men of science, wit and learning, 


He was the Devil — and all they — 


Who came to lend each other light ; 


What though the claret circled well, 


He proudly thought that his gold's might 


And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ] — 


Had set those spirits burning. Were damned eternally. 


PART THE FIFTH. 


(3xau. 


Among the guests who often staid 


In a wild measure songs to make 


Till the Devil's pctits-soupers. 


On moor, and glen, and rocky lake, 


A man there came, foir as a maid, 


And on the heart of man. 


And Peter noted what he said, 




Standing behind his master's chair. 


And on the universal sky — 




And the wide earth's bosom green, — ■ 


He was a mighty poet — and 


And the sweet, strange mystery 


A subtle-souled psychologist ; 


Of what beyond these things may lie, 


All things he seemed to understand, 


And yet remain unseen. 


Of old or new — of sea or land — 




But his own mind — which was a mist. 


For in his thought he visited 




The spots in which, ere dead and damned. 


This was a man who might have turned 


He his wayward life had led ; 


Hell into Heaven — ^and so in gladness 


Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed, 


A heaven unto himself have earned ; 


Which thus his fancy crammed. 


But he in shadows undiscerned 




Trusted, — and damned himself to madness. 


And these obscure remembrances 




Stirred such harmony in Peter, 


He spoke of poetry, and how 


That whensoever he should please, 


"Divine it was — a light — a love — • 


He could speak of rocks and trees 


A spirit which like wind doth blow 


In poetic metre. 


As it listeth, to and fi-o ; 




A dew rained down from God above. 


For though it was without a sense 




Of memory, yet he remembered well 


« A power which comes and goes like dream, 


Many a ditch and quick-set fence ; 


And which none can ever trace — 


Of lakes he had intelligence, 


Heaven's light on earth — Truth's brightest 


He knew something of heath, and fell. 


beam." 




And when he ceased there lay the gleam 


He had also dim recollections 


Of those words upon his face. 


Of pedlers tramping on their rounds ; 




Milk-pans and pails ; and odd collections 


Now Peter, when he heard such talk. 


Of saws, and proverbs ; and reflections 


Would, heedless of a broken pate. 


Old parsons make in burying-gi-ounds. 


Stand like a man asleep, or baulk 




Some wishing guest of knife or fork, 


But Peter's verse was clear, and came 


Or drop and brealc his master's plate. 


Announcing from the frozen hearth 




Of a cold age, that none might tame 


At night he oft would start and wake 


The soul of that diviner flame 


Like a lover, and began 


It augured to the Earth. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



269 



Like gentle rains, on the dry plains, 

Making that green which late was gray, 
Or like the sudden moon, that stains 
Some gloomy chamber's window panes 
With a broad hght like day. 

For language was in Peter's hand, 

Like clay, while he was yet a potter ; 
And he made songs for all the land, 
Sweet both to feel and understand, 
As pipkins late to mountain Cotter. 



-, the bookseller. 



And Mr. - 

Gave twenty pounds for some ; — then scorning 
A footman's yellow coat to wear, 
Peter, too proud of heart, I fear. 

Instantly gave the Devil warning. 

Whereat the Devil took offence. 

And swore in his soul a great oath then, 

" That for his damned impertinence, 

He'd bring him to a proper sense 
Of what was due to gentlemen !" — 



PART THE SIXTH. 

JHflmnation. 



« THAT mine enemy had written 

A book !" — cried Job : — a fearful curse ; 

If to the Arab, as the Briton, 

'Twas galling to be critic-bitten : — 
The Devil to Peter wished no worse. 

When Peter's next new book found vent, 
The Devil to all the first Reviews 

A copy of it slily sent. 

With five-pound note as compliment. 
And this short notice — " Pray abuse." 

Then seriatim, month and quarter. 

Appeared such mad tirades. — One said — 
" Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter. 
Then drowned the mother in UUswater, 
The last thing as he went to bed." 

Another — " Let him shave his head ! 

Where's Dr. Willis 1 — Or is he joking 1 
What does the rascal mean or hope. 
No longer imitating Pope, 

In that barbarian Shakspeare poking 1" 

One more, " Is incest not enough 1 

And must there be adultery too 1 
Grace after meat 1 Miscreant and Liar ! 
Thief! Blackguard ! Scoundrel ! Fool ! Hell-fire 

Is twenty times too good for you. 

" By that last book of yours we think 

You've double damned yourself to scorn ; 
We warned you whilst yet on the brink 
You stood. From your black name will shrink 
The babe that is unborn." 

All these Reviews the Devil made 

Up in a parcel, which he had 
Safely to Peter's house conveyed. 
For carriage, ten-pence Peter paid — 

Untied them — read them — went half mad. 

" What !" cried he, " this is my reward 
For nights of thought, and days of toil 1 

Do poets, but to be abhorred 

By men of whom they never heard, 
Consmne their spirits' oil T 



« What have I done to theml — and who 

Is Mrs. Foy 1 'Tis very cruel 
To speak of me and Emma so ! 
Adultery ! God defend me ! Oh ! 

I've half a mind to fight a duel. 

" Or," cried he, a gi'ave look collecting, 

" Is it my genius, like the moon. 
Sets those who stand her face inspecting. 
That face within their brain reflecting. 

Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune 1" 

For Peter did not know the town, 
But thought, as country readers do, 

For half a guinea or a crown. 

He bought oblivion or renown 

From God's own voice* in a review. 

All Peter did on this occasion 

Was, writing some sad stuff in prose. 

It is a dangerous invasion 

When poets criticise ; their station 
Is to delight, not pose. 

The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair. 

For Bom's translation of Kant's book ; 
A world of words, tail foremost, where 
Right — wrong — false — true — and foul — and fair, 
As in a lottery-wheel are shook. 

Five thousand crammed octavo pages 

Of German psychologies, — he 
Who his furo)- verhonim assuages 
Thereon, deserves just seven month's wages 

More than will e'er be due to me. 

I looked on fhcm nine several days, 
And then I saw that they were bad ; 

A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise, — 

He never read them ; — with amaze 
I found Sir William Drummond had. 



* Vox popidi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes 
of a more fumnus sayin;;, of some merit as a popular 
maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy. 
z'2 



270 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 



When the book came, the Devil sent 

It to P. Verbovale,* Esquh-e, 
With a brief note of compliment, 
By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, 

And set his soul on fire. 

Fire, which ex luce prsehens fumum. 

Made him beyond the bottom see 
Of truth's clear well — when I and you Ma'am, 
Go, as we shall do, suhter huinum, 
We may know more than he. 

Now Peter ran to seed in soul 

Into a walking paradox ; 
For he was neither part nor whole, 
Nor good, nor bad — nor knave nor fool, 

— Among the woods and rocks. 

Furious he rode, where late he ran, 
Lashing and spurring his tame hobby ; 

Turned to a formal puritan, 

A solemn and unscxual man, — 
He half believed White Obi. 

This steed in vision he would ride, 

High trotting over nine-inch bridges. 
With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride. 
Mocking and mowing by his side — ■ 
A mad-brained goblin for a guide — 
Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. 

After these ghastly rides, he came 

Home to his heart, and found from thence 

Much stolen of its accustomed flame ; 

His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame 
Of their intelligence. • 

To Peter's view, all seemed one hue ; 

He was no whig, he was no tory ; 
No Deist and no Christian he ; — 
He got so subtle, that to be 

Notliing, was all his glory. 

One single point in his belief 

From his organization sprung. 
The heart-enrooted faith, the chief 
Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf. 

That " happiness is wrong ;" 

So thought Calvin and Dominic ; 

So think their fierce successors, who 
Even now would neither stint nor stick 
Our flesh from off our bones to pick. 

If they might " do their do." 

His morals thus were undermined : — 
The old Peter — the hard, old Potter 

Was born anew within his mind ; 

He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined. 

As when he tramped beside the Otter.f 

* Quasi, Qui valet verba : — i. e. all the words which 
have been, are, or may be expended by, for, against, 
with, or on him. A sufficient proof of the utility of this 
history. Peter's progenitor who selected this name 
seems to have possessed a pure aiiticipated cognition of 
the nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity. 

I A famous river in the new Atlantis of the Dynasto- 
phylic Pantisocratists. 



In the death hues of agony 

Lambcntly flashing from a fish, 
Now Peter felt amysed to see 
Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee. 
Mixed with a certain hungry wish.* 

So in his Countiy's dying face 

He looked — and lovely as she lay. 
Seeking in vain his last embrace. 
Wailing her own abandoned case. 

With hardened sneer he turned away : 

And coolly to his own soul said ; — 

" Do you not think that we might make 
A poem on her when she's dead : — 
Or, no — a thought is in my head — 
Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take. 

" My wife wants one. — Let who will bury 
This mangled corpse ! And I and you, 
M}' dearest Soul, will then make merry, 
As the Prince Regent did with Sherry, — • 
Ay — and at last desert me too." 

And so his soul would not be gay. 

But moaned within him ; like a fawn 
Moaning within a cave, it lay 
Wounded and wasting, day by day. 
Till all its hfe of lite was gone. 

As troubled skies stain waters clear, 

The storm in Peter's heart and mind 
Now made his verses dark and queer : 
They were the ghosts of what they were, 
Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. 

For he now raved enormous folly, 

Of Baptisms, Sunday-Schools, and Graven 
'Twould make George Colman melancholy. 
To have heard him, like a male Molly, 

Chaunting those stupid staves. 

Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse 
On Peter while he wrote for fi-eedom. 

So soon as in his song they spy. 

The folly which soothes tyranny. 
Praise him, for those who feed 'em. 

" He was a man, too great to scan ; 

A planet lost in truth's keen rays: — 
His virtue, awful and prodigious ; — ■ 
He was the most sublime, religious. 

Pure-minded Poet of these days." 



* See the description of the beautiful colours pro- 
duced during the agonizing death of a number of trout, 
in the fourth part of a long poem in blank verse, pub- 
lished within a few years. That poem contains curious 
evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but cir- 
cumscribed sensibility, of the perversion of a pene- 
trating but panic-stricken understanding. The author 
might have derived a lesson which he had probably for- 
gotten from these sweet and sublime verses. 
This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. 
Taught both by what shef shows and what conceals, 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. 
t Nature. 



PETER BELL THE THIRD. 



271 



As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 
"Eureka ! I have found the way 
To make a better thing of metre 
Than e'er was made by hving creature 
Up to this blessed day." 

Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil ; — 
In one of which he meekly said : 

" May Carnage and Slaughter, 

Tliy niece and thy daughter, 

May Rapine and Famine, 

Thy gorge ever cramming, 

Glut thee with living and dead! 



" May death and damnation, 

And consternation. 
Flit up from hell with pure intent ! 

Slash them at Manchester, 

Glasgow, Leeds and Chester ; 
Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent. 

« Let thy body-guard yeomen 

Hew down babes and women. 
And laugh with hold triumph till Heaven be rent, 

When Moloch in Jewry, 

Munched children with fury. 
It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent."* 



PART THE SEVENTH. 

JUoublc JUnmnation. 



The Devil now knew his proper cue. — 
Soon as he read the ode, he drove 

To his friend Lord Mac Murderchouse's, 

A man of interest in both houses. 
And said : — " For money or for love, 

" Pray find some cure or sinecure ; 

To feed from the superfluous taxes, 
A friend of ours — a poet — fewer 
Have fluttered tamer to the lure 

Than he." His lordship stands and racks his 

Stupid brains, while one might count 

As many beads as he had boroughs, — 
At length replies ; from his mean fi-ont, 
Like one who rubs out an account. 

Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows : 
" It happens fortunately, dear Sir, 

I can. I hope I need require 
No pledge from you, that he will stir 
In our affairs ; — like Oliver, 

That he'll be worthy of his hire." 
These words exchanged, the news sent off 

To Peter, home the Devil hied, — 
Took to his bed ; — he had no cough. 
No doctor, — meat and drink enough, — 

Yet that same night he died. 

The Devil's corpse was leaded down ; 

His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, 
Mourning-coaches, many a one. 
Followed his hearse along the town : — 

Where was the Devil himself? 

When Peter heard of his promotion, 

His eyes grew like two stars for bliss ; 
There was a bow of sleek devotion. 
Engendering in his back ; each motion 
Seemed a lord's shoe to kiss. 

He hired a house, bought plate, and made 

A genteel drive up to his door, 
With sifted gravel neatly laid, — 
As if defying all who said, 

Peter was ever poor. 



But a disease soon struck into 

The very life and soul of Peter — 
He walked about — slept — had the hue 
Of health upon his cheeks — and few 
Dug better — none a heartier eater. 

And yet a strange and horrid cm'se 

Clung upon Peter, night and day. 
Month after month the thing grew worse, 
And deadlier than in this my verse, 
I can find strength to say. 

Peter was dull — he was at first 

Dull — O, so dull — so very dull ! 
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed- 
Still with this dulness was he cursed — 

Dull — ^beyond conception — dull. 
No one could read his books — no mortal. 

But a few natural friends, would hear liim ; 
The parson came not near his portal ; 
His state was like that of the immortal 

Described by Swift — no man could bear him. 
His sister, wife, and children yawaied. 

With a long, slow, and drear ennui, 
All human patience far beyond ; 
Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned. 

Any where else to be. 

But in his verse, and in his prose. 

The essence of his dulness was 
Concentred and compressed so close, 
'Twould have made Guatimozin doze 

On his red gridiron of brass. 

* It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. 
Cobbett and Peter use the same language for a different 
purpose ; Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. 
Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than Peter, 
because he pollutes a holy and now unconquerable 
cause with the principles of legitimate murder : whilst 
the other only nialves a bad one ridiculous and odious. 

If either Peter or Cobbett should see this note, each 
will fee! more indignation at being compared to the 
other than at any censure implied in the moral perver- 
sion laid to their charge. 



272 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819. 



A printer's boy, folding those pages, 
Fell slumberously upon one side ; 

Like those famed seven who slept three ages. 

To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages, 
As opiates, were the same applied. 

Even the Reviewers who were hired 

. To do the work of his reviewing. 

With adamantine nerves, grew tired ; — 

Gaping and torpid they retired, 

To dream of what they should be doing. 

And worse and worse, the drowsy curse 

Yawned in him, till it grew a pest — 
A wide contagious atmosphere, 
Creeping like cold through all things near ; 

A power to infect and to infest. 
His servant-maids and dogs grew dull ; 

His kitten, late a sportive elf, 
The woods and lakes, so beautiful. 
Of dim stupidity were full. 

All grew dull as Peter's self. 
The earth under his feet — the springs. 

Which lived within it a quick life, 
The air, the winds of many wings. 
That fan it with new murmurings. 

Were dead to their hai-monious strife. 



The birds and beasts within the wood, 
The insects, and each creeping thing, 

Were now a silent multitude; 

Love's work was left unwrought — ^no brood 
Near Peter's house took wing. 

And every neighbouring cottager 

Stupidly yawned upon the other : 
No jackass brayed; no little cur 
Cocked up his ears ; — no man would stir 
To save a dying mother. 

Yet all from that charmed district went 

But some half-idiot and half-knave. 
Who rather than pay any rent. 
Would live with marvellous content, 
Over his father's grave. 

No bailiff dared within that space. 
For fear of the dull charm, to enter; 

A man would bear upon his face, 

For fifteen months in any case. 
The yawn of such a venture. 

Seven miles above — below — around— 
This pest of dulness holds its sway ; 

A ghastly life without a sound ; 

To Peter's soul the spell is bounds 
How should it ever pass away ■! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



273 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



LINES, 

"WBITTEN DURING THE CASTLEKEAGH 
ADMINISTRATION. 

Corpses are cold in the tomb, 
Stones on the pavement are dumb, 
Abortions are dead in the womb. 
And their mothers look pale — like the white shore 
Of Albion, free no more. 

Her sons are as stones in the way — 
They are masses of senseless clay — ■ 
They are trodden and move not away, — 
The abortion, with which she travaileth, 
Is Liberty — smitten to death. 

Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor, 
For thy Victim is no redressor. 
Thou art sole lord and possessor 
Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions — they pave 
Thy path to the grave. 

Hearest thou the festival din. 
Of death, and destruction, and sin. 
And wealth, crying Havoc ! within — • 
'Tis the Bacchanal triumph, wliich makes truth 
Thme Epithalamium. [dumb. 

Ay, marry thy ghastly wife ! 
Let fear, and disquiet, and strife 
Spread thy couch in the chamber of life. 
Marry Ruin, thou tyrant ! and God be thy guide 
To the bed of the bride. 



SONG 

TO THE MEN OP ENGLAND. 

Men of England, wherefore plough 
For the lords who lay ye low 1 
Wherefore weave with toil and care, 
The rich robes your tyrants wear 1 

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, 
From the cradle to the grave, 
Those ungTiiteful drones who would 
Drain your sweat — nay, drink your blood ! 

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge 
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge. 
That these stingless drones may spoil 
The forced produce of your toil! 

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm. 
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm 1 
Or what is it ye buy so dear 
With your pain and with your fear 1 
35 



The seed ye sow, another reaps ; 
The wealth ye find, another keeps; 
The robes ye weave, another wears ; 
The arms ye forge, another bears. 

Sow seed, — but let no tyrant reap ; 
Find wealth, — let no impostor heap ; 
Weave robes.— let not the idle wear ; 
Forge arms, — in your defence to bear. 

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells ; 
In halls ye deck, another dwells. 
Why shake the chains ye wrought 1 Ye see 
The steel ye tempered glance on ye. 

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, 
Trace your grave, and build your tomb, 
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair 
England be your sepulchre. 



SIMILES. 

FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819. 

As from an ancestral oak 

Two empty ravens sound their clarion, 
Yell by yell, and croak by croak. 
When they scent the noonday smoke 

Of fresh human carrion : — 

As two gibbering night-birds flit. 

From their bowers of deadly hue, 
Through the night to frighten it, 
When the morn is in a fit. 

And the stars are none or few:— 

As a shark and dog-fish wait 

Under an Atlantic isle, 
For the negro-ship, whose freight 
Is the theme of their debate. 

Wrinkling their red gills the while — 

Are ye, two vultures sick for battle. 

Two scorpions under one wet stone. 
Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle. 
Two crows perched on the murrained cattle. 
Two vipers tangled into one. 



AN ODE, 

TO THE ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY. 

Arise, arise, arise ! 
There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread ; 
Be your wounds like eyes 
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. 



274 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 



What other giief were it just to pay 1 

Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they ; 

Who said they were slain on the battle day 1 

Awaken, awaken, awaken ! 
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes ;' 

Be the cold chains shaken 
To the dust, where your kindred repose, repose : 
Their bones in the grave will start and move, 
When they hear the voices of those they love, 
Most loud in the holy combat above. 

Wave, wave high the banner ! 
When Freedom is riding to conquest by : 

Though the slaves that fan her 
Be famine and toil, giving sigh for sigh. 
And ye who attend her imperial car, 
Lift not your hands in the banded war, 
But in her defence whose children ye are. 

Glory, glory, glory. 
To those who have greatly suffered and done ! 

Never name in story 
Was greater than that ^vhich ye shall have won. 
Conquerors have conquered their foes alone. 
Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have over- 
thrown : 
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. 

Bind, bind every brow 
With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine : 

Hide the blood-stains now 
With hues which sweet nature has made divine. 
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity. 
But let not the pansy among them be ; 
Ye were injured, and that means memory. 



ENGLAND IN 1819. 

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, — 
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow 
Through pubhc scorn — 'mud from a muddy 

spring, — 
Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, 
But leech-like to their fainting country cling, 
Tdl they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, — 
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, — 
An army, which liberticide and prey 
Makes as a two-edged sword to ail who wdeld, 
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay, — 
Religion Christless, Godless — a book sealed ; 
A Senate — Time's worst statute unrepealed, — 
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may 
Burst, to illume our tempestuous day. 



ODE TO HEAVEN. 

Chorus of Spirits. 

first spirit. 
Paxacf-roof of cloudless nights! 
Paradise of golden liglits ! 



Deep, immeasurable, vast, 
Which art now, and which wert then ! 

Of the present and the past, 
Of the eternal where and when. 

Presence-chamber, temple, home, 

Ever-canopying dome. 

Of acts and ages yet to come ! 



Glorious shapes have life in thee. 
Earth, and all earth's company; 

Living globes which ever throng 
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses ; 

And green worlds that glide along ; 
And swift stars with flashing tresses ; 

And icy moons most cold and bright. 

And mighty suns beyond the night, 

Atoms of intensest light. 



Even thy name is as a god, 
Heaven ! for thou art the abode 

Of that power which is the glass 
Wherein man his nature sees. 

Generations as they pass 
Worship thee with bended knees. 

Their unrcmaining gods and they 

liike a river roll away ; 

Thou remainest such alway. 

SECOSTD SPIRIT. 

Thou art but the mind's first chamber. 

Round which its young fancies clamber. 
Like weak insects in a cave. 

Lighted up by stalactites ; 
But the portal of the grave. 

Where a world of new delights 
Will malce thy best glories seem 
But a dim and noonday gleam 
From the shadow of a dream ! 



THIRD SPIRIT. 

Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with scorn 
At your presumption, atom-born ! 

What is heaven 7 and what are ye 
Who its brief expanse inherit 1 

What are suns and spheres which flee 
With the instinct of that spirit 

Of which ye are but a part ? 

Drops which Nature's mighty heart 

Drives through thinnest veins. Depart ! 

What is heaven 1 a globe of dew. 

Filling in the morning new 

Some eyed flower, whose young leaves 
waken 

On an unimagined world : 
Constellated suns unshaken. 

Orbits measureless, are furled 
In that frail and fading sphere, 
With ten millions gathered there, 
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



275 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND.* 



WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, hke ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou. 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its gi-ave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With h\ing hues and odours plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving every where ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear ! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and 
Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the doom of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : Oh hear ! 

in. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay. 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

* This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a 
wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day 
when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at 
once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours 
which pour down the autumnal rains. They be^an, as 
I foresaw, at sunset, with a violent tempest of hail and 
rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and lightning 
peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the 
third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegeta- 
tion at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, 
sympathizes with that of the land in the change of sea- 
sons, and is consequently influenced by the winds which 
announce it. 



All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves : Oh hear ! 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vi.sion, I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take fi-om both a deep autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce. 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! wind. 

If Winter comes, can spring be far behind 1 



AN EXHORTATION. 



Chameleojts feed on light and air ; 

Poet's food is love and fame : 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
With as little toil as they. 

Would they ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do, 
Suiting it to every ray 
Twenty times a-day 1 



276 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 18 19. 



Poets are on this cold earth, 

As chameleons might be, 
Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea ; 
Where light is, chameleons change ! 

Where love is not, poets do : 

Fame is love disguised : if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
That poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind : 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind. 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 
Spirits from beyond the moon, 
Oh, refuse the boon ! 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 



(With what truth I may say 

Roma ; Roma ; Roma ! 
Non e piu come era prima !) 

Mt lost William, thou in whom 

Some bright spirit lived, and did 
That decaying robe consume 

Which its lustre fluntly hid. 
Here its ashes find a tomb, 

But beneath this pyramid 
Thou art not — if a thing divine 
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine 
Is thy mother's grief and mine. 

Where art thou, my gentle child ] 

Let me think thy spirit feeds. 
Within its life intense and mild. 

The love of living leaves and weeds, 
Among these tombs and ruins wild ; — 

Let me think that through low seeds 
Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass. 
Into their hues and scents may pass, 
A portion ■ — 

Jane, 1819. 



ON 
THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI, 

IN THE FLOnENTINE GALLERY. 



It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky. 

Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine ; 
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly ; 

Its horror and its beauty are divine. 
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie 

Loveliness like a shadow, from which shrine, 
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath. 

The agonies of anguish and of death. 

Yet it is less the horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone ; 

Whereon the lineaments of that dead face 
Are graven, till the characters be grown 

Into itself, and thought no more can trace ; 
'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown 

Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain. 

Which humanize and harmonize the strain. 

And from its head as from one body grew. 
As [ ] grass out of a watery rock. 

Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow, 
And their long tangles in each other lock, 

And with unending involutions show 

Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock 

The torture and the death within, and saw 

The solid air with many a ragged jaw. 

And from a stone beside, a poisonous eft 
Peeps idly into these Gorgonian eyes; 

Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft 
Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise 

Out of the cave this hideous light hath cleft. 
And he comes hastening like a moth that hies 

After a taper ; and the midnight sky 

Flares, a light more dread than obscurity. 

'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror ; 

For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare 
Kindled by that inextricable error. 

Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air 
Become a [ ] and ever-shifting mirror 

Of all the beauty and the terror there — 
A woman's countenance, with serpent locks. 
Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks. 

Florence, 1819. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 19. 



277 



NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1819. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



Though Shelley's first eager desire to excite 
his countrymen to resist openly the oppressions 
existent during " the good old times" had faded 
with early youth, still his warmest sympathies 
were for the people. He was a republican, and 
loved a democracy. He looked on all human be- 
ings as inheriting an equal right to possess the 
dearest privileges of our nature, the necessaries of 
life, when fairly earned by labour, and intellectual 
instruction. His hatred of any despotism, that 
looked upon the people as not to be consulted or 
protected from want and ignorance, was intense. 
He was residing near Leghorn, at Villa Valsovano, 
writing The Cenci, when the news of the Man- 
chester Massacre reached us ; it roused in him 
violent emotions of indignation and compassion. 
The great truth that the many, if accordant and 
resolute, could control the few, as was shown 
some years after, made him long to teach his in- 
jured countrymen how to resist. Inspired by these 
feelings, he wrote the Masque of Anarchy, which 
he sent to his friend, Leigh Hunt, to be inserted in 
the Examiner, of which he was then the Editor. 

« I did not insert it," Leigh Hunt writes in his 
valuable and interesting preface to this poem, when 
lie printed it in 1832, "because I thought that the 
public at large had not become sufficiently discern- 
ing to do justice to the sincerity and kind-hearted- 
ness of his spirit, that walked in this flaming robe 
of verse." Days of outrage have passed away, 
and with them the exasperation that would cause 
such an appeal to the many to be injurious. With- 
out being aware of them, they ai one time acted 
on his suggestions, and gained the day ; but they 
rose when human life was respected by the minis- 
ter in power ; such was not the case during the 
administration which excited Shelley's abhorrence. 

The poem was written for the people, and is 
therefore in a more popular tone than usual ; por- 
tions strike as abrupt and unpolished, but many 
stanzas are all his own. I heard him repeat, and 
admired those beginning, — 

My Father Time is old and gray, 

before I knew to what poem they were to belong. 
But the most touching passage is that which de- 
scribes the blessed effects of liberty ; they might 



make a patriot of any man, whose heart was not 
wholly closed against his humbler fellow-creatures. 

Shelley loved the people, and respected them as 
often more virtuous, as always more suffering, and, 
therefore, more deserving of sympathy, than the 
great. He believed that a clash between the two 
classes of society was inevitable, and he eagerly 
ranged himself on the people's side. He had an 
idea of publishing a series of poems adapted ex- 
pressly to commemorate their circumstances and 
wrongs — he wrote a few, but m those days of 
prosecution for libel they could not be printed. 
They are not among the best of his productions, a 
writer being always shackled when he endeavours 
to write down to the comprehension of those who 
could not understand or feel a highly imaginative 
style ; but they show his earnestness, and with 
what heartfelt compassion he went home to the 
direct point of injury — that oppression is detest- 
able, as being the parent of starvation, nakedness, 
and ignorance. Besides these outpourings of com- 
passion and indignation, he had meant to adorn 
the cause he loved with loftier poetry of glory and 
triumph — such is the scope of the Ode to the 
Assertors of Liberty. He sketched also a new 
version of our national anthem, as addressed to 
Liberty. 

God prosper, speed, and save, 
God raise from England's grave 

Her murdered Queen ! 
Pave with swift victory 
The steps of Liberty, 
Whom Britons own to be 

Immortal Queen! 

See, she comes throned on high, 
On swift Eternity: 

God save the Queen ! 
Millions on millions wait 
Firm, rapid, and elate, « 

On her majestic state ! 

God save the Queen! 

She is thine own pure soul 
Moulding the mighty whole, 

God save the Queen '. 
She is thine own deep love 
Rained down from heaven above. 
Wherever she rest or move, 

God save our Queen! 
Wilder her enemies 
In their own dark disguise, 

God save our Queen ! 
2 A 



278 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 19. 



All earthly things that dare 
Her saered name to bear, 
Strip them, as kings are, bare ; 

God save the Queen! 

Be her eternal throne 
Built in our he:uts alone, 

God save the Queen ! 
Let the oppressor hold 
Canopied seats of gold; 
She sits enthroned of old 

O'er our hearts Queen ! 

Lips touched by seraphim 
Breathe out the choral hymn 

God save the Queen ! 
Sweet as if angels sang, 
Loud as that trumpet's clang. 
Wakening the world's dead gang, 

God save the Queen ! 

Shelley had suffered severely from the death of 
our son during this summer. His heart, attuned 
to every kindly affection, was full of burning love 
for his offspring. No words can express the 
anguish he felt when his elder children were torn 
from him. In his first resentment against the 
Chancellor, on the passing of the decree, he had 
written a curse, in which there breathes, besides 
haughty indignation, all the tenderness of a father's 
love, which could imagine and fondly dwell upon 
its loss and the consequences. It is as follows : 



TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR. 

Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest Crest, 
Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm. 

Which rends our Mother's bosom — Priestly Pest ! 
Masked Resurrection of a buried form !* 

Thy country's curse is on thee ! Justice sold. 
Truth trampled, Nature's landmiirks overthrown, 

And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, 
Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's throne. 

And whilst that slow sure Angel, which aye stands. 

Watching the beck of Mutability, 
Delays to execute her high commands, 

And, though a nation weeps, spares thine and thee i 

let a father's curse be on thy soul. 

And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb, 
And both on thy gray head, a leaden cowl. 
To weigh thee down to thine approaching doom ! 

1 curse thee by a parent's outraged love, 

By hopes long cherished and too lately lost. 
By gentle feelings thou couUlst never prove, 
By griefs which thy stern nature never crost : 

By those infantine smiles of happy light. 
Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth. 

Quenched even when kindled, in untimely night, 
Hiding the promise of a lovely birth : 

By these unpractised ascents of young speech. 
Which he who is a father thought to frame, 

To gentlest lore, such as the wisest teach ; 

Thou strike the lyre of mind ; O grief and shame ! 

* The Star Chamber. 



By all the happy see in children's growth. 
That undeveloped flower of budding years, 

Sweetness and sadness interwoven both, ^ 
Source of the sweetest hopes and saddest fears : 

By all the days under a hireling's care 
Of dull constraint and bitter heaviness,— 

wretch ye, if ever any were. 

Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless ! 

By the false cant, which on their innocent lips, 
Must hang like poison on an opening bloom. 

By the dark creeds which cover with eclipse 
Their pathway from the cradle to the tomb ; 

By thy most impious Hell, and all its terrors. 
By all the grief, the madness, and the guilt 

Of thine impostures, which must be their errors. 
That sand on which thy crumbling Power is built 

By thy complicity with lust and hate. 
Thy thirst lor tears, thy hunger after gold. 

The ready frauds which ever on thee wait, 
The servile arts in which thou hast grown old ; 

By thy most killing sneer, and by thy smile. 
By all the acts and snares of thy black den. 

And— for thou canst outweep the crocodile, — 
By thy false tears— those millstones braining men ; 

By all the hate which checks a father's love. 
By all the scorn which kills a father's care. 

By those most impious hands that dared remove 
Nature's high bounds — by thee — and by despair J 

Yes, the despair which bids a father groan. 
And cry, my children are no longer mine ; 

The blood within those veins may be mine own. 
But, Tyrant, their polluted souls are thine. 

1 curse thee, though I hate thee not ; O slave ! 

If thou couldst quench the earth-consuming hell 
Of which thou art a demon, on thy grave 
This curse should be a blessing. Fare thee well ! 

At one time, while the question was still pend- 
ing, the Chancellor had .'iaid some words that 
seemed to intimate that Shelley should not be per- 
mitted the care of any of his children, and for a 
moment he feared that our infant son would be 
torn from us. He did not hesitate to resolve, if 
such were menaced, to abandon countr\% fortune, 
every thing, and to escape with his child ; and I 
find some unfinished stanzas addressed to this son, 
whom afterwards we lost at Rome, written under 
the idea that we might suddenly be forced to cross 
the sea, so to preserve him. This poem, as well as 
the one previously quoted, were not written to ex- 
hibit the pangs of distress to the public : they were 
the spontaneous outbursts of a man who brooded 
over his wrongs and woes, and was impelled to 
shed the grace of his genius over the uncontrol- 
lable emotions of his heart : 

The billows on the beach are leaping around it. 

The bark is weak and frail. 
The sea looks black, and the clouds that bound it 

Darkly strew the gale. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 18 19. 



279 



Come with me, thou delightful child, 
Comewith me, though the wave is wild, 
And the winds are loose, we must not stay, 
Or the slaves of law may rend thee away. 

They have taken thy brother and sister dear, 

They have made them unfit for Ihee ; 
They have withered the smile and dried the tear, 

Which should have been sacred to me. 
To a bli!;liting faith and a cause of crime 
They have bound them slaves in youtlily time, 
And they will curse my name and thee, 
Because we fearless are and free. 

Come thou, beloved as thou art, 

Another sleepeth still, 
Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart. 

Which thou with joy wilt fill ; 
With fairest smiles of wonder thrown 
On that which is indeed our own, 
And which in distant lands will be 
The dearest playmate unto thee. 

Fear not the tyrants will rule for ever. 

Or the priests of the evil faith ; 
They stand on the brink of that raging river, 

Whose waves they have tainted with death. 
It is fed from the depth of a thousand dells, 
Around them it foams and rages and swells ; 
And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, 
Like wrecks on the surge of eternity. 

Rest, rest, shriek not, thou gentle child ! 

The rocking of the boat thou fearest. 
And the cold spray and the clamour wild f 

There sit between us two, thou dearest ; 
Me and thy mother — well we know 
The storm at which thou tremblest so, 
With all its dark and hungry graves. 
Less cruel than the savage slaves 
Who hunt thee o'er these sheltering waves. 

This hour will in thy memory 

Be a dream of days forgotten ; 
We soon shall dwell by the azure sea 

Of serene and golden Italy, 

Or Greece, the Mother of the free. 
And I will teach thine infant tongue 
To call upon their heroes old 
In their own language, and will mould 
Thy growing spirit in the flame 
Of Grecian lore ; that by such name 
A patriot's birthright thou mayst claim. 

I ought to observe that the fourth verse of this 
effusion is introduced in Rosalind and Helen. 

When aftei-wards this child died at Rome, he 
wrote, apropos of the English burying-ground in 
that city, " This spot is the repository of a sacred 
loss, of which the yearnings of a parent's heart 
are now projihetic; he is rendered immortal by 
love, as his memory is by death. My beloved 
child lies buried here. I envy death the body far 



less than the oppressors the minds of those whom 
they have torn from me. The one can only kill 
the body, the other crushes the affections." 

In this new edition I have added to the poems 
of this year, " Peter Bell the Third." A critique 
on Wordsworth's Peter Bell reached us at Leghorn, 
which amused Shelley exceedingly and suggested 
this poem. 

I need scarcely observe that nothing personal 
to the Author of Peter Bell is intended in this 
poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth's 
poetry more ; — he read it perpetually, and taught 
others to appreciate its beauties. This poem is, 
like til others written by Shelley, ideal. He con- 
ceived the idealism of a poet — a man of lofty and 
creative genius, — quitting the glorious calling of 
discovering and announcing the beautiful and 
good, to support and propagate ignorant prejudices 
and pernicious errors; imparting to the unen- 
lightened, not that ardour for truth and .spirit of 
toleration which Shelley looked on as the sources 
of the moral improvement and happiness of man- 
kind ; but false and injurious opinions, that evil 
was good, and that ignorance and force were the 
best allies of purity and virtue. His idea was 
that a man gifted even as transcendantly as the 
Author of Peter Bell, with the highest qualities 
of genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be 
infected with dulness. This poem was written, 
as a warning — not as a narration of the reality. 
He was unacquainted personally with Words- 
worth or with Coleridge, (to whom he alludes in 
the fifth part of the poem,) and therefore, I repeat, 
his poem is purely ideal ; — it contains something 
of criticism on the compositions of these great 
poets, but nothing injurious to the men them- 
selves. 

No poem contains more of Shelley's peculiar 
views, with regard to the errors into which many 
of the wisest have fallen, and of the pernicious 
efl'ects of certain opinions on society. Much of it 
is beautifully written — and though, like the bur- 
lesque drama of Swcllfoot, it must be looked on as 
a plaything, it has so much merit and poetry — so 
much of himself m it, that it cannot fail to interest 
greatly, and by right belongs to the world for 
whose instruction and benefit it was written. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN MDCCCXX. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



PART I. 

A sETfsiTiVE Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
And it opened its fanUke leaves to the light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair. 
And the Spirit of Love fell every where ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the compaiaionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose fi-om the ground with warm rain wet, 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 

Then the pied windflowers and the tulip tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness. 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That the Hght of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue. 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 
It was felt like an odour within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wandlike lily, which lifted up, 

As a Mfenad, its moonlight-coloured cup. 

Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 

Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom. 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

280 



Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 

And starry river-buds glimmered by. 

And around them the soft stream did glide and dance 

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells, 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
And flowrets which drooping as day drooped too, 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue. 
To roof the glowworm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakeniug eyes 
Smile on. its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it,) 

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 
With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, 
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear. 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt fi-om the leaf to the root. 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever. 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 
giver — 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautifiil ! 

The light winds, which from unsustaining wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and fiee. 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with light and odour, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living gi-ass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ; 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



281 



The |uivering vapours of dim noontide, 
Whidi, like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, 
In wUch every sound, and odour, and beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each aid all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. 
Whilst ihe lagging hours of the day went by 
Like wiridless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from heaven above. 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love. 
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep. 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep. 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; [drowned 
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 

Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 

And snatches of its Elysian chant 

Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant.) 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favourite. 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 



PART II. 



There was a Power in this sweet place. 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind. 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind. 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean. 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven. 
Like the lamps of the iir when night walks forth. 
Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 
But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 
Told whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise : 

As if some bright spirit for her sweet sake 

Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake, 

As if yet around her he lingering were, 

Tliough the veil of daylight concealed him from her. 

Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest : 
You might hear, by the heaving of her breast, 
That the coming and the going of the wind 
Brought pleasiu-e there and left passion behind. 
36 



And wherever her airy footstep trod, 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. 

She lifl;ed their heads with her tender hands. 
And sustained them with rods and osier bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants, she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 

And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof. 
Into the rough woods far aloof, 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full, 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banished insects, whose intent, 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamUke ephemeris, [kiss 
Whose path is the lightning's, and sofl: moths that 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Where butterflies dream of the life to come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of summer tide, 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she died ! 



PART III. 



Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the noon is awakened, were, 
Or the waves of the Baise, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chaunt. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
And the silent motions of passing death, 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coflin plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass. 
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone. 
And sate in the pines and gave groan for groan. 

2 A ^ 



282 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul : 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer in to the autumn flowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode. 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, 
Like the head and the sldn of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf afler leaf, day by day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red, 
And white with the whiteness of what is dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past ; 
Their whisthng noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds 
Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, 
Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem, 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless network of parasite bowers 
Massed into ruin, and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the snow. 

All loathliest weeds began to grow, 

Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a 

speck 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, 
Stretch'd out its long and hollow shank, 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, 
Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth. 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, 
Li\id, and starred with a lurid dew. 

And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould, 
Started like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Their moss rotted off them, flake by flake. 
Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's stake ; 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 



Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 
And at its outlet, flags huge as stakes 
Made the running rivulet thick and dumb. 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like water- 
snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still. 
The vapours arose which have strength to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon ticy were 

felt. 
At night they were darkness no star could 

melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves which together grew. 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through every pore, 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his whip ; 
One choppy finger was on his lip : 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills, 
And they clanked at his girdle like manacles ; 

His breath was a chain which without a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 
He came, fiercely driven in his chariot-throne 
By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 

Then the weeds Avhich were forms of living 

death. 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath : 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want : 
The birds dropped stifl' from the frozen air, 
And were caught in the branches naked and 
bare. 

First there came down a thawing rain. 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and 

stiff. 
And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 

When winter had gone and spring came back, 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and 

darnels. 
Rose like the dead from their ruined chamels. 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



283 



CONCLUSION. 

Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its 'roughs hke a spirit sat, 
Ere its outward form had known deca}^, 
Now felt tliis change, I cannot saj% 

Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do light. 
Found sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance and strife. 
Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 

It is a modest creed and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it, 
To own that deatli itself must be. 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair. 
And all sweet shapes and odours there, 
In truth have never passed away : 
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed ! not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change ; their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



'Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail 
Are flickering in ribbons within the tierce gale : 
From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is 

driven, 
And when lightning is loosed like a deluge from 

heaven. 
She sees the black trunks of the waterspouts spin, 
And bend, as if heaven was running in. 
Which they seemed to sustain with their terrible 

mass [pass 

As if ocean had sunk from beneath them : they 
To their graves in the deep with an earthquake of 

sound. 
And the waies and the thunders, made silent 

around. 
Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now tossed 
Through the low traihng rack of the tejiipcst, is 

lost [sweep 

In the skirts of the thunder-cloud : now down the 
Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the deep 
It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale 
Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved by the 

gale. 
Dim min-ors of ruin, hang gleaming about ; 
While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like a rout 
Of death-flames, like whirlpools of fireflowing 

iron, 
Witli splendour and terror the black sliip environ ; 



Or like sulphur-flakes hurled from a mine of pale 

fire. 
In fountains spout o'er it. In many a spire 
The pyramid-billows, with white points of brine, 
In the cope of the lightning inconstantly shine, 
As piercing the sky from the floor of the sea. 

The great ship seems splitting ! it cracks as a tree. 
While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the 

blast [past. 

Of the whirlwind that stript it of branches has 
The intense thunder-balls which are raining from 

heaven 
Have shattered its mast, and it stands black and 

riven. 
The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead hulk 
On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk, 
Like a corpse on the clay which is hung'ring to 

fold 
Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, fi'ora the 

hold. 
One deck is burst up from the waters below. 
And it splits like the ice when the thaw-breezes 

blow 
O'er the lakes of the desert ! Who sit on the other t 
Is that all the crew that lie burying each other, 
Like the dead in a breach, round the foremast 1 

Are those 
Twin tigers, who burst, when the waters arose. 
In the agony of terror, their chains in the hold 
(What now makes them tame, is what then made 

them bold) 
Who crouch, side by side, and have driven, like, a 

crank, [plank ] 

The deep grip of their claws through the vibrating 
Are these all ? 

Nine weeks the tall vessel had Iain 
On the windless expanse of the watery plain, 
Where the death-darting sun cast no shadow at 

noon. 
And there seemed to be fire in the beams of the 

moon. 
Till a lead-coloured fog gathered up from the deep, 
Whose breath was quick pestilence; then, the cold 

sleep 
Crept, like blight through the ears of a thick field 

of corn, 
O'er the populous vessel. And even and mom. 
With their hammocks for cotiins the seamen 

aghast 
Like dead men the dead limbs of their comrades 

cast 
Down the deep, which closed on them above and 

around, 
And the sharks and the dog-fish their grave-clothes 

unbound, 
And%vere glutted like Jews with this manna rained 

down 
From God on their wilderness. One after one 
The mariners died ; on the eve of this day. 
When the tempest was gathering in cloudy array. 
But seven remained. Six the thunder had smitten. 
And they lie black as mummies on which Time 

has written 



284 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



His scorn of the embalmer ; the seventh, from the 

deck 
An oak spHnter pierced through his breast and his 

back, 
And hung out to the tempest, a wreck on the wreck. 

No more 1 At the helm sits a woman more fair 
Than heaven, when unbinding its star-braided 

hair, 
It sinks with the sun on the earth and the sea. 
She clasps a bright child on her upgathered knee. 
It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mixed 

thunder 
Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder 
It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near, 
It would play with those eyes where the radiance 

of fear 
Is outshining the meteors ; its bosom beats high, 
The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye ; 
Whilst its mother's is lustreless. " Smile not, my 

child, . 
But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so be beguiled 
Of the pang that awaits us, whatever that be, 
So dreadful since thou must divide it with me ! 
Dream, sleep ! This pale bosom, thy cradle and 

bed. 
Will it rock thee not, infant 1 'Tis beating with 

dread ! 
Alas ! what is life, what is death, what are we, 
That when the ship sinks we no longer may be 1 
What ! to see thee no more, and to feel thee no 

more] 
To be after life what we have been before"? [eyes. 
Not to touch those sweet hands, not to look on those 
Those lips and that hair, all that smiling disguise 
Thou yet wearest, sweet spirit, which I, day by day. 
Have so long called my child, but which now fades 

away 
Like a rainbow and I the fallen shower 1" 

Lo ! the ship 
Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports dip ; 
The tigers leap up when they feel the slow brine 
Crawling inch by inch on them ; hair, ears, hmbs, 

and eyne, 
Stand rigid with horror ; a loud, long, hoarse cry 
Burst at once from their vitals tremendously. 
And 'tis borne down the mountainous vale of the 

wave. 
Rebounding, like thunder, from crag to cave. 
Mixed with the clash of the lashing rain, 
Hurried on by the might of the hurricane : 
The hurricane came from the west, and past on 
By the path of the gate of the eastern sun, 
Tranversely dividing the stream of the storm ; 
As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form 
Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes of the 

waste. 
Black as a cormorant the screaming blast, 
Between ocean and heaven, like an ocean, past, 
Till it came to the clouds on the verge of the 

world 
Which based on the sea and to heaven upcurled. 
Like columns and walls did surround and sustain 
The dome of the tempest ; it rent them in twain, 



As a flood rends its barriers of mountainous crag : 
And the dense clouds in many a ruin and rag. 
Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake has 

past. 
Like the dust of its fall, on the whirlwind are cast ; 
They are scattered like foam on the torrent ; and 

where 
The wind has burst out through the chasm, from 

the air 
Of clear morning, the beams of the sunrise flow in, 
Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalUne, 
Banded armies of light and of air ; at one gate 
They encounter, but interpenetrate. 
And that breach in the tempest is widening away, 
And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day. 
And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings, 
Lulled by the motion and murmurings, 
And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea. 
And over head glorious, but dreadful to see. 
The wrecks of the tempest, like vapours of gold, 
Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped waves 

behold. 
The deep calm of blue heaven dilating above, 
And, like passions made still by the presence of 

Love, 
Beneath the clear surface reflecting it shde 
Tremulous with soft influence ; extending its tide 
From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle, 
Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with heaven's 

azure smile. 
The wide world of waters is vibrating. 

Where 
Is the ship] On the verge of the wave where it lay 
One tiger is mingled in ghastly afiray 
With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of the 

battle 
Stain the clear air with sunbows ; the jar, and the 

rattle 
Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress 
Of the snake's adamantine voluminousness ; 
And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains 
Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the 

veins. 
Swollen with rage, strength, and effort ; the whirl 

and the splash 
As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash 
The thin winds and soft waves into thunder ! the 

screams 
And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean- 
streams. 
Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion, 
A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean. 
The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other 
Is winning his way from the fate of his brother. 
To his own with the speed of despair. Lo ! a boat 
Advances ; twelve rowers with the impulse of 

thought, [stern 

Urge on the keen keel, the brine foams. At the 
Three marksmen stand levelhng. Hot bullets 

bum 
In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on 
To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone, 
'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone, 
Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



285 



With her left hand she grasps it impetuously, 
With her right she sustains her fair infant Death, 

Fear, 
Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere. 
Which trembles and burns with the fervour of 

dread 
Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her 

head. 
Like a meteor of Hght o'er the waters ! her child 
Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring : so 

smiled 
The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and 

brother 
The child and the ocean still smile on each other, 
Whilst 



THE CLOUD. 



I BKis"G fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 



I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. 

Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It stiuggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



The sanguine sunrise, with its meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wingg. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath. 



Its ardours of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 



That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-Uke floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I vsdden the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 



I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 



I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and the sunbeams with their convex 

Build up the blue dome of air, [gleams, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost fi-om the 

I arise and unbuOd it again. [tomb, 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



The fountains mingle with the river. 
And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix for ever 
With a sweet emotion ; 

Nothing in the world is single ; 
All things by a law divine 

In one another's being mingle- 
Why not I with thine 1 



286 POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 




Sco the niountiiins kiss high heaven, 


TI. 




And the waves elasj) one another ; 


All the eaith and air 




No sister llower would be forgiven 


With thy voice is loud, 




If it disdained its brother : 


As, when night is bare. 




And the sunlight elasps the earth, 


From one lonely cloud 




And the nioonlieanis kiss the sea; — 


The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is 




What are all these kissings worth, 


ovcrllowcd. 




If thou kiss not nie ? 


TII. 




Jiimiiiry, 1S20. 


'What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee 1 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 








TO 


Drops so bright to see. 




As from thy presence showers a raui of melody. 






Tin. 




I FEATi thy kisses, gentle maiden, 


Like a poet hidden 




Thou needest not fear mine ; 


In the light of thought. 




My spirit is too deeply laden 


Singing hynms unbidden. 




Ever to burden thine. 


Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 




I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 






Thou needest not fear mine ; 


IX. 




Innocent is the heart's devotion 


Like a highborn maiden 




With which I worship thine. 


In a palace tower, 

Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 






With music sweet as love, which overflows her 
bower : 




TO A SKYLARK. 


X. 






Like a glo^^Ti'orm golden 




I. 


In a dell of dew, 




Hail to thee, Withe spirit! 


Scattering unbeholden 




Bird thou never wert, 


Its aerial hue 




That from heaven, or near it, 


Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from 




Pourcst thy full heart 


the view : 




In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 


II. 




II. 


Like a rose embowered 




Higher still and higher, 


In its own green leaves, 




From the earth tJiou springest 


By warm winds dcllowered. 




Like a cloud of fire ; 


Till the scent it gives 




The blue deep thou wingest, 


Makes fliint wiUi too much sweet these hea^vy- 




And singing still dost soar, and soaiing ever angest. 


winged thieves. 




111. 

In the golden lightning 


XII. 

Sound of vernal showers 




Of the sunken sun, 


On the twinkUng grass. 




O'er which clouds are brightening, 


Rain-awakened flowers. 




Thou dost float and run ; 


All that ever was 




Like an unbodied joy whoso race is just begun. 


Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth s\}rpass. 




IT. 


XIII. 




The pale purple even 


Teach us, sprite or bird. 




Melts around thy flight ; 


What sweet thoughts are tliine : 




Like a star of heaven. 


I have never heard 




In the broad daylight 


Praise of love or wine 




Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 


That panted fortli a flood of rapture so divine. 




V. 


XIT. 




Keen as are the arrows 


Chorus hymeneal. 




Of that silver sphere. 


Or triumphal chaunt. 




Whose intense lamp n;rrrows 


Matched with thine would be all 




In the white dawn clear. 


But an empty vaunt — 




Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

i_ : 


A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 





ODE TO LIBERTY. 



287 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain 1 
What fields, or waves, or mountains 1 
What shapes of sky or plain 1 
What love of thine own kind ] what ignorance of 
pain? 

XVI. 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

XVII. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream 1 

XVIII. 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; . 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought, y 

XIX. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

XX. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou sconier of tho ground ! 

XXI. 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must kno"^, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as T am listening now. 



ODE TO IIBERTY. 



Yet freedom, yet, thy b inner torn but flying. 
Streams like a thunde -storm against the wind. 

BYBON. 



A GLOHiors people vibrated again 

The lightning of "the nations: Liberty, 

From heart to herjt, from tower to tower, o'er 
Spain, 
Scattering conta jious fire mto the sky, 



Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay 

And, in the rapid plumes of song, 

Clothed itself sublime and strong ; 

As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among, 

Hovering in verse o'er its accustomed prey ; 

Till from its station in the heaven of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void, was from behind it flung, 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there came 
A voice out of the deep ; I will record the same. 



The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth ; 

The burning stars of the abyss were hurl'd 
Into the depths of heaven. The dadal earth. 

That island in the ocean of the world. 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air : 
But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a curse, 
For thou wert not : but power from worse produc- 
ing worse, 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, 
And of the birds, and of the wateiy forms, 
And there was war among them and despair 

Within them, raging without truce or terms : 
The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms 

on worms, [storms. 

And men on men ; each heart was as a hell of 

III. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion 
Of the sun's throne : palace and pyramid. 

Temple and prison, to many a swarming million. 
Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind and rude. 
For thou wert not ; but o'er the populous solitude. 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves, 

Hung tyranny ; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves ; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide, 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and blood, 
Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed, 
Drove the astonished herds of men from every 
side. 



The nodding promontories, and blue isles, 

And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves 
Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles 

Of favouring heaven ; from their enchanted caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 
On the unapprehensive wild. 
The vine, the corn, the ohve mild, 
Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled ; 

And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 
Like the man's thought, dark in the infant's brain, 
Like aught that is which wraps what is to be. 
Art's deathless dreams lay veiled b}' many a vein 
Of Parian stone ; and yet a speechless child. 
Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain 
Her lidlcss eyes for thee ; when o'er the ^^gcan 
main 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



Athens arose ; a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in dirision 

Of kingliest masonry : the ocean floors 
Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each head 
Within its cloudy wings with sun-lire garlanded, 
A divine work ! Athens diviner yet 

Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set ; 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill 
Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. 



Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its WTinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and for ever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past ; 
Religion veils her eyes ; Oppression shrinks aghast: 
A winged sound of joy, and love, and wonder, 
Which soars where Expectation never flew, 
Rending the veil of space and time asunder ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and 
dew; 
One sun illumines Heaven ; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new, 
As Athens doth the world with thy delights renew. 



Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest, 

Like a wolf-cub from Cadmaean Maenad,* 
She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest 

From that Elysian food was yet unweaned ; 
And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified ; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side, 
Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 
But when tears stained thy robe of vestal white- 
ness, 
And gold profaned thy capitolian throne, 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness, 
The senate of the tyrants : they sunk prone 
Slaves of one tyrant. Palatinus sighed 
Faint echoes of Ionian song ; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown. 



From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill, 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main. 
Or utmost islet inaccessible. 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign, 
Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks, 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn, 
To talk in echoes sad and stern. 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared un- 
learn 7 

*See the BacchiE of Euripides. 



For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks 

Of the Scald's di'eams, nor haunt the Druid's 

sleep. [locks, 

What if the tears rained through thy shattered 

Were quickly dried"! for thou didst groan, not 

When from its sea of death to kill and burn [weep, 

The Galilean serpent forth did creep. 

And made thy world an undistmguishable heap. 



A thousand years the earth cried. Where art thou 1 

And then the shadow of thy ;oming fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cmctured brow: 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel, 
Like rocks, which fire lifts out of the flat deep. 
Arose in sacred Ital}^ 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in totver-crowned 
majesty ; 
That multitudinous anarchy did sweep, 

And burst around tlieir walls, like idle foam. 
Whilst from the human spirit's deepest deep, 
Strage melody with love and awe struckdumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art which cannot die. 
With divine want traced on our earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting dome. 

X. 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon T thou terror 
Of the world's wolves ! thou bearer of the quiver. 
Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest-winged Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance : 
Like lightning from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay ; 

And England's prophets hailed thee as their 
In songs whose music cannot pass away, [queen, 
Though it must flow for ever : not unseen 
Before the spirit-sighted countenance 

Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. 



The eager hours and unreluctant years 

As on a dawr-illumined mountain stood. 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears 

Darkening each other with their multitude, 
And cried aloud. Liberty ! Indignation 
Answered Pity from her cave ; 
Death grew pale within the grave, 
And desolation howled to the destroyer. Save ! 
When, like heaven's sun, girt by the exhalation 

Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise. 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
Like shadows : as if day had cloven the skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western wave, . 
Men started, staggering with a glad surprise. 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiUar eyes. 

XII. 

Thou heaven of earth ! what iipells could pall thee 
In ominous eclipse 1 A thov sand years, [then, 

Bred from the shme of deep oppression's den, 
Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears, 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



289 



Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away ; 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Folly's mitred 
brood ! 
When one, hke them, but mightier far than they, 
The anarch of thine own bewildered powers, 
Rose : armies mingled in obscure array. 

Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pursued, [bowers 
Rests with those dead but unforgotten hours, 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ances- 
tral towers. 



England yet sleeps : was she not called of old 1 

Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder 
Vesuvius wakens ^tna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder : 
O'er the lit waves every ^olian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus : [us. 
They cry, Be dim, ye lamps of heaven suspended o'er 
Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile 
And they dissolve ; but Spain's were links of 
Till bit to dust, by virtue's keenest file, [steel, 
Twins of a single destiny ! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us, 
In the dim West; impress us from a seal, 
All ye have thought and done ! Time cannot 
dare conceal. 



Tomb of Arrainius ! render up thy dead 

Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's staff". 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's head ! 

Thy victory shall be his epitaph, 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope 1 thou art already free ! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 

And glorious world ! thou flowery wilderness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 

Where desolation, clothed with loveliness, 
Worships the thing thou wert ! Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart ; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred 
palaces. 

XT. 

that the free would stamp the impious name 

Of * * * * into the dust ; or write it there. 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 

Were as a serpent's path, which the light air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard : 
Lift the victory-flashing sword, 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word, 
Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can bind 

Into a mass, irrefragably firm, 
The axes and the rods which awe mankind , 
The sound has poison in it, 'tis the sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorred ; 
Disdain not thou, at tliine appointed term. 
To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. 
37 



O that the wise from their bright minds would kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this dim world, 
That the pale name of Priest might shrink and 
dwindle 
Into the hell from which it first was hurled, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure 

Till human thoughts might kneel alone. 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the power unknown ! 
O that the words which make the thoughts obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds of glimmer- 
ing dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue portraiture, 

Were stript of their thin masks and various hue. 
And frowns and smiles and splendours not their 
own. 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to receive 
its due. 



He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 
Can be between the cradle and the grave, 
Crowned him the King of Life. O vain endeavour ! 

If on his own high will a willing slave, 
He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need. 
And power in thought be as the tree within the 
Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor, [seed 1 

Di%ing on fiery wings to Nature's throne. 
Checks the great mother stooping to caress her, 
And cries, give me, thy child, dominion 
Over all height and depth 1 if Life can breed 
New wants, and wealth from those who toil 

and groan. 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousand fold for one. 



Come thou, but lead out of the inmost cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morning-star 
Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave. 

Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car 
Self-moving like cloud charioted by flame ; 
Comes she not, and come ye not, 
Rulers of eternal thought. 
To judge with solemn truth life's ill-apportioned lot 1 
Bhnd Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame 

Of what has been, the Hope of what will be 1 
0, Liberty ! if such could be thy name 

Wert thou disjoined from these, or they from 
thee : 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought 
By blood or tears, have not the wise and free 
Wept tears and blood like tears 1 The solemn 
harmony 

XIX. 

Paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing 

To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn ; 
Then as a wild swan, when sublimely winging 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn. 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden Uglit 
On the heavy sounding plain. 
When the bolt has pierced its brain ; 
215 



290 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



As summer clouds dissolve unburdened of their 
As a far taper fades with fading night ; [rain ; 

As a brief insect dies with dying day, 
My song its pinions disarrayed of might 
Drooped ; o'er it closed the echoes far away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, 
As waves which lately paved his watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous 
play. 



ARETHUSA. 



Arf-thusa arose 

From her couch of snows 

In the Acroceraunian mountains, — • 
From cloud and from crag, 
With many a jag, 

Shepherding her bright fountains. 
She leapt down the rocks 
With her rainbow locks 

Streaming among the streams ; — 
Her steps paved with green 
The downward ravine 

Which slopes to the western gleams : 
And gliding and springing, 
She went, ever singing. 

In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The earth seemed to love her, 
And heaven smiled above her, 

As she lingered towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook ; 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks ; — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It concealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below : 

The beard and the hair 

Of the river God were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep. 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 
And bid the deep hide me. 

For he grasps me now by the hair !" 
The loud ocean heard. 
To its blue depth stirred, 

And divided at her prayer ; 
And under the water 
The Earth's white daughter 

Fled lilfe a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended 
Her billows, unblended 

With the brackish Dorian stream : 



Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main 
Alpheus rushed beliind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 

Sit on their pearled thrones : 

Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods. 

Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a network of coloured light ; 
And under the caves, 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night: — 
Outspeeding the shark. 
And the sword-fish dark, 

Under the ocean foam, 

And up through the rifts 
• Of the mountain clifts 

They passed to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks, 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide thy flow 

Through the woods below 
And the meadows of Asphodel ; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — • 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 
Pisa, 1820. 



SONG OF PROSERPINE, 

WHILE GATHEHIJJG FLOWERS ON THE PLAIJT OF 
ElfNA. 



Sacrf.d Goddess, Mother earth, 
Thou from whose immortal bosom, 

Gods, and men, and beasts have birth. 
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom, 

Breathe thine influence most divine 

On thine own child, Proserpine. 

If with mists of evening dew 

Thou dost nourish these young flowers 
Till they grow, in scent and hue. 

Fairest children of the hours. 
Breathe thine influence most divine 
On thine own child, Proserpine. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



291 



HYMN OF APOLLO. 

The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, 
Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries, 

From the broad moonlight of the sky, 

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, — 

Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, 

Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. 

Then I arise, and cUmbing Heaven's blue dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the waves. 

Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam ; 

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire : the caves 

Are filled with my bright presence, and the air 

Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare. 

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill 
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day ; 

All men who do or even imagine ill 
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray 

Good minds and open actions take new might, 

Until diminished by the reign of night. 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers, 
With their ethereal colours ; the Moon's globe 

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers 
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe ; 

Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine 

Are portions of one power, which is mine. 

I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, 
Then with imwilling steps I wander down 

Into the clouds of the Atlantic even ; 

For grief that I depart they weep and frown : 

What look is more delightful than the smile 

With which I soothe them firom the western isle 1 

I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself and knows itself divine; 

All harmony of instrument or verse. 
All prophecy, all medicine are mine. 

All light of art or nature ; — to my song 

Victory aiid praise in their own right belong. 



HYMN OF PAN. 



Frost the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
From the river-girt islands, 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to ray sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 

The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass, 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus* was, 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 

* This and the former poem were written at the re- 
quest of a friend, to be inserted in a drama on the sub- 
ject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus 
for the prize in music. 



Liquid Pencuswas flowing. 

And all dark Tempe lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day, 

Speeded with my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the nymphs of the woods and waves, 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns, 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did then attend and follow. 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the dsedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars. 

And Love, and Death, and Birth, — • 
And then I changed my pipings, — - 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed : 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed : 
All wept, as I think both ye now would, 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
At the soiTow of my sweet pipings. 



THE QUESTION. 

I DREAMED that as I wandered by the way, 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 

And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 

But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth. 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 

Faint oxlips ; tender blue bells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that 
Its mother!s face with heaven-collected tears, [wets 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May, 

And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine. 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; 

And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold. 

Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with 

And starry river buds among the sedge, [white, 
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright. 

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 



292 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 

Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 
I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 
That I miglit there present it ! — Oh ! to whom ? 



THE TWO SPIRITS. 
AN ALLEGOKY. 

FinsT spiniT. 

O THOU, who plumed with strong desire 

Wouldst float above the earth, beware I 
A shadow tracks thy flight of fire — 

Night is coming ! 
Bright are the regions of the air, 

And among the winds and beams 
It were delight to wander there — ■ 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

The deathless stars are bright above : 
If I would cross the shade at night. 
Within my heart is the lamp of love, . 

And that is day ! 
And the moon will smile with gentle light 

On my golden plumes where'er they move ; 
The meteors will linger round my flight. 
And make night day. 

FIKST SPIHIT. 

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken 
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain ; 
See the bounds of the air are shaken — 

Night is coming ! 
The red swift clouds of the hurricane 
Yon declining sun have overtaken, 
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain — 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

I see the light, and I hear the sound ; 

I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark. 
With the calm within and the light around 

Which makes night day : 
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark, 

Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound, 
My moonlight flight thou then may'st mark 
On high, far away. 

Some say there is a precipice 

Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin 
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice 

'Mid Alpine mountains ; 
And that the languid storm pursuing 

That winged shape, for ever flies 
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing 
Its aery fountains. 

Some say when nights are dry and clear, 

And the death-dews sleep on the morass, 
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller. 

Which makes night day : 
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass 

Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, 
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, 
He finds night day. 



LETTER 

TO MARIA GISBORNE. 

Leghobn, July, 1, 1820. 
The spider spreads her webs, whether she be 
In poet's tower, cellar, or bam, or tree ; 
The silkworm in the dark-green mulberry leaves 
His winding-sheet and cradle ever weaves ! 
So I, a thing whom moralists call worm. 
Sit spinning still round this decaying form, 
From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought — 
No net of words in garish colours wrought, 
To catch the idle buzzers of the day — 
But a soft cell, where, when that fades away. 
Memory may clothe in wings my living name 
And feed it with the asphodels of fame. 
Which in those hearts which most remember me 
Grow, making love an immortaUty, 

Whoever should behold me now, I wist. 

Would think I were a mighty mechanist, 

Bent with sublime Archimedean art 

To breathe a soul into the iron heart 

Of some machine portentous, or strange gin. 

Which by the force of figured spells might win 

Its way over the sea, and sport therein ; 

For round the walls are hung dread engines, sach 

As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch 

Ixion or the Titan : — or the quick 

Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, 

To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic; 

Or those in philosophic councils met, 

Who thought to pay some interest for the debt 

Tliey owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation, 

By giving a faint foretaste of damnation 

To Shakspeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest 

Who made our land an island of the blest. 

When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire 

On Freedoni's hearth, grew dim with Empire : — 

With thumb-screws, wheels, with tooth and spike 

and jag. 
With fishes found under the utmost crag 
Of Cornwall, and the storm-encompassed isles. 
Where to the sky the rude sea seldom smiles 
Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the mom 
When the exulting elements in scorn 
Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay 
Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey. 
As panthers sleep : — and other strange and dread 
Magical forms the brick-floor overspread — 
Proteus transformed to metal did not make 
More figures, or more strange ; nor did he take 
Such shapes of unintelligible brass, 
Or heap himself in such a horrid mass 
Of tin and iron not to be understood. 
And forms of unimaginable wood. 
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood : 
Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved 

blocks, 
The elements of what will stand the shocks 
Of wave and wind and time. — Upon the table 
More knacks and quips there be than I am able 
To cataloguize in this verse of mine : — ■ 
A pretty bowl of wood — not full of wine, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



293 



But quicksilver ; that dew which the gnomes drink 
When at their subterranean toil they swink, 
Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who 
Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo ! 
And call out to the cities o'er their head, — ■ 
Roofs, towns, and shrines, — the dying and the dead 
Crash through the chinks of earth — and then all 

qualf 
Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. 
I'his quicksilver no gnome has drunk — within 
The walnut-bowl it lies, veined and thin, 
In colour like the wake of light that stains 
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains 
The inmost shower of its white fire — the breeze 
Is still — blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. 
And in this bowl of quicksilver — for I 
Yield to the impulse of an infancy 
Outlasting manhood — I have made to float 
A rude idealism of a paper boat — 
A hollow screw with cogs — Henry will know 
The thing I mean, and laugh at me, — if so 
He fears not I should do more mischief. — Next 
Lie bills and calculations much perplext, 
With steamboats, frigates, and machinery quaint 
Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. 
Then comes a range of mathematical 
Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, 
A heap of rosin, a green broken glass 
With ink in it; — a china cup that was 
What it will never be again, I think, 
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink 
The liquor doctors rail at — and which I 
Will quaff in spite of them — and when we die 
We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea. 
And cry out,- — heads or tails ? where'er we be. 
Near that a dusty paint-box, some old books, 
A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, 
Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms. 
To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, 
Lie heaped iji their harmonious disarray 
Of figures, — disentangle them who may. 
Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie. 
And some odd volumes of old chemistry. 
Near them a most inexplicable thing. 
With least in the middle — Fm conjecturing 
How to make Henry understand ; — but — no, 
I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo. 
This secret in the pregnant womb of time, 
Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. 

And here like some weird Archimage sit I, 

Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, 

The self impelling steam-wheels of the mind 

Wliich pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind 

The gentle spirit of our meek reviews 

Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, 

Ruffing the ocean of their self-content : — 

I sit — and smile or sigh as is my bent, 

But not for them — Libeccio rushes round 

With an inconstant and an idle sound, 

I heed him more than them — the thunder-smoke 

Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak 

Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare ; 

The ripe corn under the undulating air 

Undulates like an ocean ; — and the vines 

Are trembling wide in all their trelUsed lines ; — 



The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill 
The empty pauses of the blast ;- — the hill 
Looks hoary through the white electric rain, 
And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain 
The interrupted thunder howls ; above 
One chasm of heaven smiles, like the eye of love 
On the unquiet world ; — while such things are, 
How could one worth your friendship heed the war 
Of worms 1 The shriek of the world's carrion jays, 
Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise ? 

You are not here ! The quaint witch Memory sees 

In vacant chairs your absent images, 

And points where once you sat, and now should be, 

But are not. — I demand if ever we 

Shall meet as then we met ; — and she replies. 

Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes, 

" I know the past alone — but summon home 

My sister Hope, she speaks of all to come." 

But I, an old diviner, who know well 

Every false verse of that sweet oracle, 

Turned to the sad enchantress once again. 

And sought a respite fi-om my gentle pain, 

In acting every passage o'er and o'er 

Of our communion. — How on the sea-shore 

We watched the ocean and the sky together. 

Under the roof of blue Italian weather ; 

Howl ran home through last year's thunder-storm, 

And felt the transverse lightning linger warm 

Upon my cheek : and how we often made 

Treats for each other, where good will outweighed 

The frugal luxury of our country cheer, 

As it well might, were it less firm and clear 

Than ours must ever be ; — and how we spun 

A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun 

Of this familiar life, which seems to be 

But is not, — or is but quaint mockery 

Of all we would believe; or sadly blame 

The jarring and inexplicable frame 

Of this wrong world : — and then anatomize 

The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes 

Were closed in distant years ; — or widely guess 

The issue of the earth's great business, 

When we shall be as we no longer are ; 

Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war 

Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not ; or how 

You listened to some interrupted flow 

Of visionary rhyme ; — in joy and pain 

Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, 

With little skill perhaps; — or how we sought 

Those deepest wells of passion or of thought 

Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years. 

Staining the sacred waters with our tears ; 

Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed ! 

Or how I, wisest lady ! then indued 

The language of a land which now is free, 

And winged with thoughts of truth and majestj'. 

Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud. 

And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, 

" My name is Legion !" — that majestic tongue. 

Which Calderon over the desert flung 

Of ages and of nations ; and which found 

An echo in our hearts, and with the sound 

Startled oblivion ; — thou wert then to me 

As is a nurse — when inarticulately 



294 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



A child would talk as its ^own parents do. 

If livdiig winds tho rapid clouds pursue, 

If hawks chase doves through the aerial way, 

Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, 

Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast 

Out of the forest of the pathless past 

These recollected pleasures 1 

You are now 
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow 
At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore 
Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. 
Yet in its depth what treasures ! You will see 
Your old friend Godwin, greater none than he ; 
Though fallen on evil times, yet will he stand, 
Among the spirits of our age and land, 
Before the dread tribunal of To-come 
The foremost, whilst rebuke stands pale and dumb. 
You will see Coleridge ; he who sits obscure 
In the exceedmg lustre and the pure 
Intense irradiation of a mind, 
Which, with its own internal lustre blind, 
Flags wearily through darkness and despair — • 
A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, 
A hooded eagle among the blinking owls. 
You will see Hunt; one of those happy souls 
Which arc the salt of the earth, and without whom 
This world would smell like what it is a tomb ; 
Who is, what others seem : — his room no doubt 
Is still adorned by many a cast from Shout, 
With graceful flowers, tastefully placed about; 
And coronals of bay from ribbons hung. 
And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, 
The gifts of the most learned among some dozens 
Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins. 
And there he is with his eternal puns, 
Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns 
Thundering for money at a poet's door; 
Alas ! it is no use to say, " I'm poor I" 
Or oft in graver mood, when he will look 
Things wiser than were ever said in book, 
Except in Shakspeare's wisest tenderness. 
You will see H — •, and I cannot express 
His virtues, though I know that they are great, 
Because he locks, then barricades, the gate 
Within which they inhabit; — of his wit. 
And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. 
He is a pearl within an oyster shell. 
One of the richest of the deep. And there 
Is English P — with his mountain Fair 
Turned into a Flamingo, — that shy bird 
That gleams i' the Indian air. Have you not heard 
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, 
His best friends hear no more of him ] but you 
Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, 
With the milkwhite Snowdonian Antelope 
Matched with his camelopard his fine wit 
Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; 
A strain too learned for a shallow age. 
Too wise for selfish bigots ; — let his page, 
Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, 
Folds itself up for a serener clime 
Of years to come, and find its recompense 
In that just expectation. Wit and sense. 
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might 
Make this dull world a business of delight. 



All are combined in Horace Smith. — And these, 
With some exceptions, which I need not tease 
Your patience by descanting on, are all 
You and I know in London. 

I recall 
My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night ; 
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight 
Fills the void, hollow, universal air. 
What see you ] — Unpavilioned heaven is fair. 
Whether the moon, into her chamber gone. 
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan 
Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep ; 
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep. 
Piloted by the many-wandering blast 
And the rare stars rush through them, dim and 

fast. 
All this is beautiful in every land. 
But what see you beade *? A shabby stand 
Of hackney-coaches — a brick house or wall 
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl 
Of our unhappy politics ; — or worse — • 
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse 
Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, 
You must accept in place of serenade — 
Or yellow-haired PoUonia murmuring 
To Henry, some unutterable thing, 

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit 

Built round dark caverns, even to the root 

Of the living stems who feed them ; in whose 

bowers 
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers ; 
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn 
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne 
In circles quahit, and ever-changing dance. 
Like winged stars the fireflies flash and glance 
Pale in the open moonshine ; but each one 
Under the dark trees seems a little sun, 
A meteor tamed ; a fixed star gone astray 
From the silver regions of the Milky-way. 
Afar the Contadino's song is heard. 
Rude, but made sweet by distance ; — and a bii'd 
Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet 
I know none else that sings so sweet as it 
At this late hour ; — and then all is still : — • 
Now Italy or London, which you will ! 

Next winter you must pass with me ; HI have 
My house by that time turned into a grave 
Of dead despondence and low thoughted care. 
And all the dream which our tormentors are. 

O that Hunt and were there, 

With every thing belonging to them fair ! — 

We will have books ; Spanish, Itahan, Greek, 

And ask one week to make another week 

As like his father, as I'm unlike mine. 

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine. 

Yet let's be meiTy ; we'll have tea and toast ; 

Custards for supper, and an endless host 

Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, 

And other such lady-like luxuries, — 

Feasting on which we will philosophize. 

And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's 

wood. 
To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



295 



And then we'll talk ; — what shall we talk about 1 
Oh! there ai'e themes enough for many a bout 
Of thought-entangled descant ; as to nerves 
With cones and parallelograms and curves, 
I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare 
To bother me, — when you are with me there. 
And they shall never more sip laudanum 
From Helicon or Himeros ;* — well, come, 
And in spite of * * * and of the devil, 
Will make our friendly philosophic revel 
Outlast the leafless time; — till buds and flowers 
Warn the obscure inevitable hours 
Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew : — 
" To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." 



TO MARY, 

(on her objecting to the following poem, upon 
the score of its containing no human interest.) 



How, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten, 

(For vipers kill, though dead,) by some review. 

That you condemn these verses I have written. 
Because they tell no story false or true ! 

What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten. 
May it not leap and play as gi'own cats do, 

Till its claws come 1 Prithee, for this one time. 

Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 



'W^hat hand would crush the silken-winged fly, 
The youngest of inconstant April's minions. 

Because it cannot climb the purest sky, 

Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions 1 

Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die. 
When day shall hide within her twilight pinions 

The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, 

Serene as thine, wliich lent it life awhile. 



To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, 

Whose date should have been longer than a day. 

And o'er thy head did heat its wings for fame. 
And in thy sight its fading plumes display ; 

The watery bow burned in the evening flame. 
But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way — 

And that is deail. O, let me not believe 

That any thing of mine is fit to live ! 



Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years 
Considering and retouching Peter Bell ; 

Watering his laurels with the killing tears 
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to hell 

Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the 

spheres [well 

Of heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers ; this 

May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil 

The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. 

* 'Ifcrpof, from which the river Iliinera was named, 
is, with some slight shade of difference a synonymeof 
Love. 



My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature 
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise 

Clothes for our grandsons — but she matches Peter, 
Though he took nineteen years, and she three 
days 

In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre 
She wears ; he, proud as dandy with his stays, 

Has hung upon his wiry hmbs a dress 

Like Kmg Lear's " looped and windowed ragged- 
ness." 

VI. 

If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow. 
Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial cUmate 

Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow : 

A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at ; 

In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello, 

If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate 

Can shrive you of that sin, — if sin there be 

In love, when it becomes idolatry. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



BEFonE those cruel Twins, whom at one birth 
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, 

Error and truth, had hunted from the earth 

AH those bright natures which adorned its 
prime, 

And left us nothing to believe in, worth 
The pains of putting into learned rhyme, 

A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain 

Within a cavern by a secret fountain. 



Her mother was one of the Atlantides : 
The all beholding Sun had ne'er beholden 

In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas 
So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden 

In the warm shadow of her loveliness ; — 

He kissed her with his beams, and made all 
golden 

The chamber of gray rock in which she lay — 

She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 



'Tis said, she was first changed into a vapour, 
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, 

Like splendour-winged moths about a taper, 
Round the red west when the sun dies in it : 

And then into a meteor, such as caper 
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit; 

Then, into one of those mysterious stars 

Which hide themselves between the Earth and 
Mars. 



Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent 
Her how beside the folding-star, and bidden 

With that bright sign the billows to indent 
The sea-deserted sand : like children chidden, 



296 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



At her command they ever came and went : — 

Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden, 

Took shape and motion : with the living form 

Of tliis embodied Power, the cave grew warm. 



A lovely lady garmented, in light 

From her own beauty — deep her eyes, as are 
Two openings of unfathomable night 

Seen through a tempest's cloven roof; — ^her hair 
Dark — the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, 

Picturing her form ; — ^her soft smiles shone afar, 
And her low voice was heard like love, and drew 
All living things towards tliis wonder new. 



And first the spotted camelopard came, 
And then the wise and fearless elephant ; 

Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame 
Of his own volumes intervolved ; — all gaunt 

And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. 
They drank before her at her sacred fount ; 

And every beast of beating heart grew bold, 

Such gentleness and power even to behold. 



The brinded lioness led forth her young, 

That she might teach them how they should forego 

Their inborn thirst of death ; the pard unstrung 
His sinews at her feet, and sought to know 

With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue 
How he might be as gentle as the doe. 

The magic circle of her voice and eyes 

All savage natures did imparadise. 



And old Silenus, shaking a green stick 
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew 

Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick 
Cicadse are, drunk with the noonday dew : 

And Driope and Faunus followed quick, 

Teazing the God to sing them something new, 

Till in this cave they found the lady lone, 

Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 



And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, 

And though none saw him, — through the adamant 

Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, 
And through those living spirits, like a want, 

He passed out of his everlasting lair 

Where the quick heart of the great world doth 

And felt that wondrous lady all alone, — [pant 

And she felt him upon her emerald throne. 



And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, 
And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks. 

Who drives her white waves over the green sea, 
And Ocean, with the brine on his gray locks, 

And quaint Priapus with his company, [rocks 
All came much wondering how the enwombed, 

Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth ; — ■ 

Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. 



The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, 
And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant — • 

Their spirits shook within them as a flame 
Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt : 

Pigmies and Polyphemes, by many a name. 
Centaurs and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt 

Wet clefts, — and lumps neither alive nor dead, 

Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. 

XIT. 

For she was beautiful : her beauty made 

The bright world dim, and eveiy thing beside 

Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade : 
No thought of hving spirit could abide. 

Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, 
On any object in the world so wide, 

On any hope within the circling skies, 

But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. 

xiir. 

Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle 
And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three 

Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle 
The clouds andwaves and mountains with, and she 

As many starbeams, ere the lamps could dwindle 
In the belated moon, wound skilfully ; 

And wdth these threads a subtle veil she wove — 

A shadow for the splendour of her love. 

XIT. 

The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling 

Were stored with magic treasures — sounds of air, 

Which had the power all spirits of compelhng, 
Folded in cells of crystal silence there; 

Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling 
Will never die — ^yet ere we are aware. 

The feeling and the sound are fled and gone. 

And the regret they leave remains alone. 

xy. 

And there lay visions swiff, and sweet, and quaint 
Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis ; 

Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint 
With the sofl: burden of intenscst bliss : 

It is its work to bear to many a saint 

Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is. 

Even Love's — and others white, green, gray, and 

And of all shapes — and each was ather beck, j^black, 

XTI. 

And odours in a kind of aviary 

Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, 

Clipt in a floating net, a lovesick Fairy 

Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet 

As bats at the wired window of a dairy, [slept ; 
They beat their vans ; and each was an adept. 

When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds. 

To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. 

xvir. 

And hquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might 
Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, 

And change eternal death into a night 

Of glorious dreams — or if eyes needs must weep 

Could make their tears all wonder and delight, 
She in her crystal vials did closely keep : 

If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said 

The living were not envied of the dead. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



297 



XVIII. 

Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, 
The works of some Saturnian Archiinage, 

Which taught the expiations at whose price 
Men from the Gods might win that happy age 

Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice ; [rage 

And which might quench the earth consuming 

Of gold and blood — till men should live and move 

Harmonious as the sacred stars above. 

XIX. 

And how all things that seem untamcable, 
Not to be checked and not to be confined, 

Obey the spells of wisdom's wizard skill ; 

Time, Earth, and Fire — the Ocean and the Wind, 

And all their shapes — ^and man's impeiial will ; 
And other scrolls whose writings did unbind 

The inmost lore of Love — let the profane 

Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. 

XX. 

And wondrous works of substances unknown, 
To which the enchantment of her father's power 

Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, 
Were heaped in the recesses of her bower ; 

Cai"ved lamps and chalices, and phials which shone 
Li their own golden beams — ^each like a flower. 

Out of whose depth a firefly shakes his light 

Under a cypress in a starless night. 

XXI. 

At first she lived alone in this wild home, 
And her thoughts were each a minister, 

Clothing themselves or with the ocean-foam. 
Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, 

To work whatever purposes might come 

Into her mind : such power her mighty Sire 

Had girt them with, whether to fly or run. 

Through all the regions which he shines upon. 

XXII. 

The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, 

Oreads and Naiads with long weedy locks, 
OtTered to do her bidding through the seas. 

Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, 
And far beneath the matted roots of trees, 

And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, 
So they might live for ever in the light 
Of her sweet presence — each a satellite. 

xxiir. 
« This may not be," the wizard maid replied; 

" The fountains where the Naiads bedew 
Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried ; 

The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew 
Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide ; 

The boundless ocean, like a drop of dew 
Will be consumed — the stubborn centre must 
Be scattered, Uke a cloud of summer dust. 

XXIV. 

"And ye with them will perish one by one: 
If I must sigh to think that this shall be, 

If I must weep when the surviving Sun 

Shall smile on your decay — Oh, ask not me 

To love you till your little race is run ; 

I cannot die as ye must — over me [ye dwell 

Your leaves shall glance — the streams in which 

Shall be my paths henceforth, and so farewell !" 

38 



She spoke and wept : the dark and azure well 
Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears. 

And every little circlet where they fell. 

Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres 

And intertangled lines of light : — a knell 
Of sobbing voices came upon her ears 

From those departing Forms, o'er the serene 

Of the white streams and of the forest green. 

XXVI. 

All day the wizard lady sat aloof. 

Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity. 

Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; 
Or broidering the pictured poesy 

Of some high tale upon her growing woof 

Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye 

In hues outshining heaven — and ever she 

Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 

XXVII. 

While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece 
Of sandal-wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; 

Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is. 
Each flame of it is as a precious stone 

Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this 
Belongs to each and all who gaze upon 

The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand 

She held a woof that dimmed the burnuig brand. 

XXVIII. 

This lady never slept, but lay in trance 
All night within the fountain — as in sleep. 

Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance : 
Through the green splendour of the water deep 

She saw the constellations reel and dance 
Like fireflies — and withal did ever keep 

The tenor of her contemplations calm. 

With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. 

XXIX. 

And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended 
From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, 

She passed at dewfall to a space extended, 
W^here, in a lawn of flowering asphodel 

Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended. 
There yawned an inextinguishable well 

Of crimson fire, full even to the brim. 

And overflowing all the margin trim. 

XXX. 

Within the which she lay when the fierce war 
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor 

In many a mimic moon and bearded star. 

O'er woods and lawns — the serpent heard it flicker 

In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar — 

And when the windless snow descended thicker 

Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came 

Melt on the surface of the level flame. 

XXXI. 

She had a Boat which some say Vulcan wrought 
For Venus, as the cliariot of her star; 

But it was found too feeble to be fraught 

With all the ardours in that sphere wliich are. 

And so she sold it, and Apollo bought 
And gave it to this daughter : from a car 

Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat 

Which ever upon mortal stream did float 



298 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



XXXII. 

And others say, that, when but three hours old, 
The first-born Love out of his cradle leapt, 

And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, 
And like a horticultural adept, 

Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it up in mould. 
And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept 

Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, 

And with his wings fanning it as it grew. 

XXXIII. 

The plant grew strong and green — the snowy flower 
Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began 

To turn the light and dew by inward power 
To its own substance : woven tracery ran 

Of hght firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er 
The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan. 

Of which Love scooped this boat, and with soft 

Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean, [motion 

XXXIV. 

This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit 

A living spirit within all its frame. 
Breathing the fcoul of swiftness into it. 

Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, 
One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit ; 

Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame. 
Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought, — ■ 
In joyous expectation lay the boat. 

XXXV. 

Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow 
Together, tempering the repugnant mass 

With liquid love — ^all things together grow 
Through which the harmony of love can pass ; 

And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow 
A living Image, which did far surpass 

In beauty that bright shape of vital stone 

Which drew the heart of Pygmalion. 

XXXVI. 

A sexless thing it was, and in its growth 
It seemed to have developed no defect 

Of either sex, yet all the grace of both, — ■ 

In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked ; 

The bosom lightly swelled with its full youth, 
The countenance was such as might select 

Some artist that his skill should never die. 

Imaging forth such perfect purity. 

XXXVII. 

From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, 
Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, 

Tipt w^th the speed of liquid lightenings. 
Died in the ardours of the atmosphere : 

She led her creature to the boiling springs 

Where the light boat was moored, and said — ■" Sit 

And pointed to the prow, and took her seat [here !" 

Beside the rudder with opposing feet. 

XXXVIII. 

And down the streams which clove those mountains 
Around their inland islets, and amid [vast 

The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast 
Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid 

In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed ; 
By many a star-surrounded pyramid 

Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, 

And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 



XXXIX. 

The silver noon into that winding dell. 

With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops. 

Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell ; 

A green and glowing hght, like that which drops 

From folded lilies in which glowworms dwell. 
When earth over her face night's mantle wraps ; 

Between the severed mountains lay on high 

Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. 

XL. 

And ever as she went, the Image lay 

With folded wings and unawakened eyes ; 

And o'er its gentle countenance did play 
The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies. 

Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay. 
And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs 

Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain. 

They had aroused from that full heart and brain. 

XLI. 

And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud 
Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went : 

Now lingering on the pools, in which abode 
The calm and darkness of the deep content 

In which they paused ; now o'er the shallow road 
Of white and dancing waters, all besprent 

With sand and polished pebbles: — mortal boat 

In such a shallow rapid could not float, 

XLII. 

And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver 
Their snowlike waters into golden air, 

Or under chasms unfathomable ever 

Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear 

A subterranean portal for the river. 

It fled — the circling sunbows did upbear 

Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, 

Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 

XXLIII, 

And when the wizard lady would ascend 
The labyrinths of some many-winding vale. 

Which to the inmost mountain upward tend — ■ 
She called " Hermaphroditus !" and the pale 

And heavy hue which slumber could extend 

Over its lips and ej'es, as on the gale 

A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, 

Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 

XIIV. 

And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, 
With stars of fire spotting the stream below ; 

And fi-om above into the sun's dominions 

Flinging a glory, like the golden glow [minions. 

In which spring clothes her emerald-winged 
All interwoven with fine feathery snow 

And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, 

With which fi-ost paints the pines in winter time. 

xi.v. 
And then it winnowed the Elysian air 

Which ever hung about that lady bright, 
With its ethereal vans — and speeding there, 

Like a star up the torrent of the night 
Or a swift eagle in the morning glare 

Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight ; 
The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, 
Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



299 



The water flashed like sunlight by the prow 
Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven ; 

The still air seemed as if its waves did flow 

In tempest down the mountains, — loosely driven 

The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro ; 
Beneath, the billows having vainly striven 

Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel 

The swift and steady motion of the keel. 

XLVII. 

Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, 
Or in the noon of interlunar night, 

The lady-witch in visions could not chain 
Her spirit ; but sailed forth under the light 

Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain 

His storm-outspeeding wings, th' Hermaphrodite ; 

She to the Austral waters took her way, 

Beyond the fabulous Thamondocona. 

XLTIir. 

Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, 
Which rain could never bend, or whirlblast shake. 

With the Antarctic constellations paven, 

Canopus and his crew, lay th' Austral lake — • 

There she would build herself a windless haven 
Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make 

The bastions of the storm, when through the sky 

The spirits of the tempests thundered by. 

XLIX. 

A haven, beneath whose translucent floor 
The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably. 

And around which the solid vapours hoar, 
Based on the level waters, to the sky 

Lifted their dreadful crags ; and like a shore 
Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly 

Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray. 

And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. 

And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash 

Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded 

And the incessant hail, with stony clash [thing ; 
Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing 

Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash 
Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering 

Fragment of inky thunder-smoke — this haven 

Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven. 

LI. 

On which that lady played her many pranks, 
Circling the image of a shooting star. 

Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks 

Outspeeds the Antelopes which speediest are, 

In her light boat ; and many quips and cranks 
She played upon the water ; till the car 

Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan. 

To journey from the misty east began. 

III. 
And then she called out of the hollow turrets 

Of those high clouds, white, golden, and vermilion, 
The armies of her ministering spirits — 

In miglity legions million after million 
They came, each troop emblazoning its merits 

On meteor flags ; and many a proud pavilion, 
Of the intertcxture of tlie atmosphere. 
The}' pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. 



They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen 

Of woven exhalations, underlaid 
With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen 

A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid 
With crimson silk — cressets from the serene 

Hung there, and on the water for her tread, 
A tapestry of fleecelike mist was strewn. 
Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 

LIT. 

And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught 
Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, 

Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, 
She sate, and heard all that had happened new 

Between the earth and moon since they had brought 
The last intelligence — and now she grew 

Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night — ■ 

And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. 

iv. 

These were tame pleasures. — She would often climb 
The steepest ladder of the crudded rack 

Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime. 
And like Arion on the dolphin's back 

Ride singing through the shoreless air. Oft; time 
Following the serpent lightning's winding track. 

She ran upon the platforms of the wind, 

And laughed to hear the fireballs roar behind. 

LTI. 

And sometimes to those streams of upper air. 
Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round. 

She would ascend, and win the spirits there 
To let her join their chorus. Mortals found 

That on those days the sky was calm and fair, 
And mystic snatches of harmonious sound 

Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, 

And hapi^y thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. 

IVII. 

But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep. 
To glide adown old Nilus, when he threads 

Egypt and ^Ethiopia, from the steep 
Of utmost Axume, until he spreads. 

Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, 
His waters on the plain : and crested heads 

Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, 

And many a vapour-belted pyramid. 

I.VIIT. 

By Mceris and the Mareotid lakes, [floors ; 

Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber 
Where naked boys bi-idling tame water-snakes. 

Or charioteering ghastly alligators. 
Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes 

Of those huge forms. — within the brazen doors 
Of the gi-eat Labyrinth slept both boy and beast. 
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. 

LIT. 

And where within the surfiice of the river 
The shadows of the massy temples lie. 

And never are erased — but tremble ever 

Like things which every cloud can doom to die. 

Through lotus-pav'n canals, and wheresoever 
The works of man pierced that serenest sky 

With tombs, and towers, and fine, 'twas her delight 

To wander in the shadow of the nijiht. 



300 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



With motion like the spirit of that wind 

Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet 

Past thi-Qugh the peopled haunts of human kind, 
Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet. 

Through fane and palace-court and labyrinth mined 
With many a dark and subterranean street 

Under the Nile ; through chambers high and deep 

She past, observing mortals in their sleep. 

LXI. 

A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see 
Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. 

Here lay two sister-twins in infancy ; 

There a lone youth who in his dreams did weep ; 

Within, two lovers linked innocently 

In their loose locks which over both did creep 

Like ivy from one stem ; — and there lay calm, 

Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. 

LXII. 

But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, 

Not to be mirrored in a holy song, 
Distortions foul of supernatural awe. 

And pale imaginings of visioncd wrong, 
And all the code of custom's lawless law 

Written upon the brows of old and young : 
« This," said the wizard maiden, " is the strife 
Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life." 

Lxrir. 

And little did the sight disturb her soul — • 
We, the weak mariners of that wide lake, 

Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, 
Our course unpiloted and starless make 

O'er its wide surface to an unknown goal, — 
But she in the calm depths her way could take, 

Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide. 

Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 



And she saw princes couched under the glow 
Of sunlike gems ; and round each temple-court 

In dormitories ranged, row after row, 

She saw the priests asleep, — all of one sort. 

For all were educated to be so. 

The peasants in their huts, and in the port 

The sailors she saw cradled on the waves. 

And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. 

XXV. 

And all the forms in which those spirits lay. 
Were to her sight like the diaphanous 

Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array 

Their delicate limbs, who would conceal fi-om us 

Only their scorn of all concealment : they 
Move in the light of their own beauty thus. 

But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, 

And little thought a Witch was looking on them. 

ixvi. 
She all those human figures breathing there 

Beheld as living spirits — to her eyes 
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, 

And often through a rude and worn disguise 
She saw the inner form most bright and fair — 

And then, — she had a charm of strange device, 
Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone. 
Could make that spirit mingle with her own. 



LXTII. 

Alas, Aurora! what wouldst thouhave given 
For such a charm, when Tithon became gray 1 

Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven 
Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina 

Had half (oh ! why not all !) the debt forgiven 
Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pa}"^. 

To any witch vs'ho would have taught you iti 

The Hehad doth not know its value yet. 

IXVIII. 

'Tis said in after times her spirit free 

Knew what love was, and felt itself alone — 

But holy Dian could not chaster be 
Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, 

Than now this lady — like a sexless bee 

Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none — 

Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden 

Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. 

LXIX. 

To those she saw most beautiful, she gave 

Strange panacea in a crystal bowl. 
They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave. 

And lived thenceforth as if some control, 
Mightier than life, were in them ; and the grave 

Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul. 
Was a green and overarching bower 
Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. 

LXX. 

For on the night that they were buried, she 
Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook 

The light out of the funeral lamjjs, to be 
A mimic day within that deathy nook ; 

And she unwound the woven imagery 

Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took 

The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, 

And threw it with contempt into a ditch. 

LXXI. 

And there the body lajs age after age, 

Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying. 

Like one asleep in a green hermitage, 

With gentle sleep about its eyelids playing, 

And living in its dreams beyond the rage 

Of death or life ; while they were still arraying 

In liveries ever new the rapid, blind, 

And fleeting generations of mankind. 

txxii. 

And she would write strange dreams upon the brain 
Of those who were less beautiful, and make 

All harsh and crooked purposes more vain 
Than in the desert is the serpent's wake 

Which the sand covers, — all his evil gain 

The miser in such dreams would rise and shake 

Into a beggar's lap ; — the lying scribe 

Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 

LXXIII. 

The priests would write an explanation full. 
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, 

How the god Apis really was a bull. 

And nothing more ; and bid the herald stick 

The same against the temple doors, and pull 
The old cant down ; they licensed all to speak 

Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese. 

By pastoral letters to each diocese. 



ODE TO NAPLES. 



301 



The king would dress an ape up in his crown 
And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, 

And on the right hand of the sunlike throne 
Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat 

The chatterings of the monkey. — Every one 
Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet 

Of their great Emperor when the morning came; 

And kissed — 'alas, how many kiss the same ! 

LXXV. 

The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, 
Walked out of quarters in somnambulism, [and 

Round the red anvils you might see them stand 
Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, 

Beating their swords to ploughshares ; — in a band 
The jailers sent those of the liberal schism 

Free through the streets of Memphis ; much, I wis, 

To the annoyance of king Amasis. 

xxxvr. 

And timid lovers who had been so coy, 

They hardly knew whether they loved or not, 

Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy. 
To the fulfilment of their inmost thought ; 

And when next day the maiden and the boy 
Met one another, both, like sinners caught. 

Blushed at the thing which each believed was 

Only in fancy — till the tenth moon shone ; [done 

LXXVII. 

And then the Witch would let them take no ill : 
Of many thousand schemes which lovers find 

The Witch found one, — and so they took their fill 
Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. 

Friends who, by practice of some envious skill. 
Were torn apart, a wide wound, mind from 

She did unite again with visions clear [mind ! 

Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 

Lxxviir. 

These were the pranks she played among the cities 
Of mortal men, and what she did to sprites 

And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties. 
To do her will, and show their subtle slights, 

I will declare another time ; for it is 

A tale more fit for the weird winter nights — 

Than for these garish summer days, when we 

Scarcely believe much more than we can see. 



ODE TO NAPLES.* 



EPODE T. a. 

I STOOD within the city disinterred ;■!■ 

And heard the autumnal leaves like light foot- 
falls 

* The Author has connected many recollections of 
his visit to Pompeii and Baia; with the enthusiasm ex- 
cited by tlie intelligence of the proclamation of a Con- 
stitutional Government at Naples. This has given a 
tinge of picturesque and descriptive imagery to the in- 
troductory Epodos, which depicture the scenes and some 
of the majestic feelings permanently connected with the 
scene of this animating event. — -Author's JVote. 

+ Pompeii. 



Of spirits passing through the streets ; and heard 
The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals 
Thrill through those roofless halls ; 

The oracular thunder penetrating shook 
The listening soul in my suspended blood ; 

I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke — 
I felt, but heard not : — through white columns 
The isle-sustaining Ocean flood, [glowed 

A plane of light between two heavens of azure : 
Around me gleamed many a bright sepulchre 

Of whose pure beauty. Time, as if his pleasure 
Were to spare Death, had never made erasure ; 
But every living lineament was clear 
As in the sculptor's thought ; and there 

The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy, and pine. 

Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded snow, 
Seemed only not to move and grow 

Because the crystal silence of the air 

Weighed on their life ; even as the Power divine. 
Which then lulled all things, brooded upon mine. 

EPODE II. o. 

Then gentle winds arose, 

With many a mingled close 
Of wild ^Eohan sound and mountain odour keen ; 

And where the Baian ocean 

Welters with airlike motion, 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green, 
Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves. 
Even as the ever sformless atmosphere 
Floats o'er the Elysian realm, 
It bore me Hke an Angel, o'er the waves 

Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy air 

No storm can overwhelm; 

I sailed where ever flows 

Under the calm Serene 

A spirit of deep emotion. 

From the unknown graves 

Of the dead kings of Melody.* 
Shadowy Aomos darkened o'er the helm 
The horizontal fether ; heaven stript hare 
Its depths o'er Elysium, where the prow 
Made the invisible water white as snow; 
From that Typhaean mount, Inarime, 
There streamed a sunlight vapour, like the standard 

Of some ethereal host ; 

Whilst from all the coast. 
Louder and louder, gathering round, there wandered 
Over the oracular woods and divine sea 
Prophesj'ings which grew articulate — 
They seize me — I must speak them ; — be they fate ! 



STROPHE a. 



1. 



Naples ! thou Heart of men, which ever pantest 

Naked, beneath the lidless eye of heaven ! 
Elysian City, which to calm enchantest 

The mutinous air and sea ! they round thee, even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruined Paradise 

Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained ! 
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice. 

Which armed Victory offers up unstained 
To Love, the flower-enchained ! 



*IIompr and Virgil. 
2C 



302 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



Thou which wert once, and then didst cease to be, 
Now art, and henceforth ever shalt be, free, 
If Hope and Truth, and Justice can avail. 
Hail, hail, all hail ! 

STROPHE /?. 2. 

Thou youngest giant birth, 

Which from the groaning earth 
Leap'st, clothed in armour of impenetrable scale ! 

Last of the Intercessors 

Who 'gainst the Crowned Transgressors 
Pleadest before God's love! Arrayed in Wisdom's 
mail. 

Wave thy lightning lance in mirth ; 

Nor let thy high heart fail, 
Though from their hundred gates the leagued 
Oppressors, 

With hurried legions move ! 

Hail, hail, all hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE a. 

What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme 

Freedom and thee 1 thy shield is as a mirror 
To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce 
gleam 

To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer ; 
A new Acteon's error 
Shall theirs have been — devoured by their own 
hounds ! 

Be thou like the imperial Basilisk, 
Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds ! 

Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk 

Aghast she pass from the Earth's disk : 
Fear not, but gaze — for freemen mightier grow, 
And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe. 

If Hope and Truth, and Justice may avail, 

Thou shalt be great. — All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE (3. 2. 

From Freedom's form divine, 

From Nature's inmost shrine, 
Strip every impious gawd, rend Error by the veil: 

O'er Ruin desolate, 

O'er Falsehood's fallen state, 
Sit thou sublime, unawed ; be the Destroyer pale ! 

And equal laws be thine. 

And winged words let sail, 
Freighted with truth even from the throne o God : 

That wealth, surviving fate, 

Be thine. — All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE a. y. 

Didst thou not start to hear Spain's thrilling 
psean 
From land to land re-echoed solemnly. 
Till silence became music 1 From the ^ean* 
To the cold Alps, eternal Italy 
Starts to hear thine ! The Sea 
Which paves the desert streets of Venice, laughs 

In light and music ; widowed Genoa wan. 
By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs. 
Murmuring, where is Doria ? fair Milan, 
Within whose veins long ran 

* ^ffia, the Island of Circe. 



The viper's* palsying venom, lifts her heel 
To bruise his head. The signal and the seal 
(If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can avail) 
Art Thou of all these hopes. — hail ! 

ANTISTHOPHE /?. y. 

Florence ! beneath the sun, 

Of cities fairest one, [tion : 

Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expecta- 
From eyes of quenchless hope 
Rome tears the priestly cope. 

As ruling once by power, so now by admiration, 
An athlete stript to run 
From a remoter station 

For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore : — 
As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail. 
So now may Fraud and Wrong ! hail ! 

EPODE I. /?. 

Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms 

Arrayed against the everliving Gods 1 
The crash and darkness of a thousand storms 
Bursting their inaccessible abodes 

Of crags and thunder-clouds ? 
See ye the banners blazoned to the day. 

Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride! 
Dissonant threats kill Silence far away. 

The Serene Heaven which wraps our Eden wide 
With Iron light is dyed. 
The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions 

Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating; 
A hundred tribes nourished on strange religions 
And lawless slaveries, — down the aerial regions 
Of the white Alps, desolating. 
Famished wolves that bide no waiting. 
Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, 
Trampling our columned cities into dust, 

Their dull and savage lust 
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiating — [hoary, 
They come ! The fields they tread look black and 
With fire — from their red feet the streams run 
gory! 

EPODE II. (i. 

Great Spirit, deepest Love ! 

Which rulest and dost move 
All things which live and are, within the Italian 
shore ; 

Who spreadest heaven around it, 

Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it ; 
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor. 
Spirit of beauty ! at whose soft command 
The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison ! 

From the Earth's bosom chill ! 
O bid those beams be each a blinding brand 
Of lightning ! bid those showers be dews of poison ! 

Bid the Earth's plenty kill ! 

Bid thy bright Heaven above 

Whilst Ught and darkness bound it, 

Be their tomb who planned 

To make it ours and thine ! 
Or, with thy harmonizing ardours fill 
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon 

» The viper was the armorial device of the Vlsconti, 
tyrants of Milan. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



303 



Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire — 
Be man's high hope and unextinct desire 
The instrument to work thy will divine ! [pards, 
Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes fi-om leo- 
And frowns and fears from Thee, 
Would not more swiftly flee, 
Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shepherds. — 
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine 
Thou yieldest or withholdest, Oh let be 
This City of thy worship, ever free ! 



AUTUMN: 



The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing. 

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are 

And the year [dying, 

On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves 

Is lying. [dead, 

Come, months, come away, 

From November to May, 

In your saddest an'ay ; 

Follow the bier 

Of the dead cold year. 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelhng 

For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each 
gone 
To his dwelling ; 
Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray. 
Let your light sisters play — • 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 



THE WANING MOON. 

And like the dying lady, lean and pale. 
Who totters forth, ^vrapt in a gauzy veil, 
Out of her chamber, led by the insane 
And feeble wanderings of her fluling brain, 
The moon arose up in the murky earth, 
A white and shapeless mass. 



DEATH. 

Death is here, and death is there. 
Death is busy every where. 
All around, within, beneath. 
Above is death — and we are death. 

Death has set his mark and seal 
On all we are and all we feel. 
On all we know and all we fear, 



First our pleasures die — and then 

Our hopes, and then our fears — and when 

These are dead, the debt is due, 

Dust claims dust and we die too. 

All things that we love and cherish, 
liike ourselves, must fade and perish ; 
Such is our rude mortal lot — • 
Love itself would, did they not. 



LIBERTY. 

The fiery mountains answer each other ; 
Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone ; 
The tempestuous oceans awake one another. 
And the ice-rocks are shaken round winter's zone, 
When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown. 

From a single cloud the lightning flashes. 
Whilst a thousand isles are illumined round. 
Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes, 
A hundred are shuddering and tottering; the 
sound 
Is bellowing under ground. 

But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare, 
And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp ; 
Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean ; thy stare 
Makes blind the volcanoes ; the sun's bright lamp 
To thine is a fen-fire damp. 

From billow and mountain and exhalation 
The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast; 
From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation, 
From city to hamlet, thy dawning is cast, — 
And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night 
In the van of the morning light. 



TO THE MOON. 

Aut thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
And everchanging, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy ? 



SUMMER AND WINTER. 

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon. 
Towards the end of the sunny month of June, 
When the north wind congregates in crowds 
The floating mountains of the silver clouds 
From the horizon — and the stainless sky 
Opens beyond them like eternity. 
All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds. 
The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds ; 
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze, 
And the firm foliage of the larger trees. 



304 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820. 



It was a winter such as when birds die 
In the deep forests ; and the fishes lie 
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes 
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes 
A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick ; and when, 
Among their children, comfortable men 
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold : 
Alas ! then for the homeless beggar old ! 



THE TOWER OF FAMINE.* 

Amid the desolation of a city, 

Which was the cradle, and is now the grave. 

Of an extinguished people ; so that pity 

Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of oblivion's wave, 

There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built 

Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave 

For bread, and gold, and blood : pain, linked to guilt. 

Agitates the light Hame of their hours, 

Until its vital oil is spent or spilt: 

There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers 

And sacred domes ; each marble-ribbed roof. 

The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers 

Of solitary wealth ! the tempest-proof 

Pavilions of the dark Italian air 

Are by its presence dimmed — they stand aloof. 

And are withdrawn — so that the world is bare, 

As if a spectre, wrapt in shapeless terror, 

Amid a company of ladies fair 

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror 

Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue, 

The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error. 

Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew. 



AN ALLEGORY. 

A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant 

Stands yawning on the highway of the life 
Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt ; 

Around it rages an unceasing strife 
Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt 
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high 
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky. 

And many passed it by with careless tread. 
Not knowing that a shadowy [ ] 

Tracks every traveller even to where the dead 
Wait peacefully for their companion new ; 

But others, by more curious humour led, 
Pause to examine, — these are very few, 

And they learn little there, except to know 

That shadows follow them where'er they go. 

* At Pisa there still exists the prison of Ugolino, 
which goes by the name of " La Torre della Fame :" 
in the adjoining building the galley-slaves are confined. 
It is situated near the Ponte al Mare on the Arno. 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS. 



Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee iu thy fiery flight, 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now 1 

Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now 1 

Weary wind who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow ? 



SONNET. 



Ye hasten to the dead ! What seek ye there. 

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear 1 

O thou quick heart which pantest to possess 

All that anticipation feigneth fair ! 

Thou vainly curious raind which wouldest guess 

Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayest 

go, 
And that which never yet was known wouldst 

know — ■ 
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 
With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path. 
Seeking alike from happiness and wo 
A refuge in the cavern of gray death 1 
O heart, and mind, and thoughts ! What thing 

do you 
Hope to inherit in the grave below 1 



LINES TO A REVIEWER. 



Alas ! good friend, what profit can you see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
There is no sport in hate where all the rage 
Is on one side. In vain would you assuage 
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile, 
In which not even contempt lurks, to beguile 
Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate. 
Oh conquer what you cannot satiate ! 
For to your passion I am far more coy 
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy 
In winter noon. Of your antipathy 
If I am the Narcissus, you are free 
To pine into a sound with hating me. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820. 



305 



NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1820. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



We spent the latter part of the year 1819 in 
Florence, where Shelley passed several hours daily 
in the Gallery, and made various notes on its an- 
cient works of art. His thoughts were a good deal 
taken up also by the project of a steamboat, under- 
taken by a fi-iend, an engineer, to ply between 
Leghorn and Marseilles, for which he supplied a 
sum of money. This was a sort of plan to delight 
Shelley, and he was greatly disappointed when it 
was thrown aside. 

There was something in Florence that disagreed 
excessively with his health, and he suffered far 
more pain than usual ; so much so that we left 
it sooner than we intended, and removed to Pisa, 
where we had some friends, and, above all, where 
we could consult the celebrated Vacca, as to the 
cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every other 
medical man, could only guess at that, and gave 
little hope of immediate rehef; he enjoined him 
to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and 
to leave his complaint to nature. As he had 
vainly consulted medical men of the highest re- 
pute in England, he was easily persuaded to adopt 
this advice. Pain and ill-health followed him to 
the end, but the residence at Pisa agreed with him 
better than any other, and there in consequence 
we remained. 

In the spring we spent a week or two near 
Leghorn, borrowing the house of some friends, 
who were absent on a journey to England. — It 
was on a beautiful summer evening, while wan- 
dering among the lanes, whose myrtle hedges 
were the bowers of the fireflies, that we heard 
the carolling of the skylark, which inspired one of 
the most beautiful of his poems. He addressed 
the letter to Mrs. Gisborne from this house, which 
was hers ; he had made his study of the workshop 
of her son, who was an engineer. Mrs. Gisborne 
had been a friend of my father in her younger days. 
She was a lady of great accomplishments, and 
charming from her frank and affectionate nature. 
She had the most intense love of knowledge, a 
delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved 
freshness of mind, after a life of considerable 
adversity. As a favourite friend of my father we 
had sought her with eagerness, and the most open 
and cordial friendship was established between us. 



We spent the summer at the baths of San 
Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths 
were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous 
irritability. We made several excursions in the 
neighbourhood. The country around is fertile ; 
and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges 
of near hills and more distant mountains. The 
peasantry are a handsome, intelligent race, and 
there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over 
us, that rendered home and every scene we visited 
cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest 
days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey 
on foot to the summit of Monte San Pelegrino — ■ 
a mountain of some height, on the top of which 
there is a chapel, the object, during certain days 
in the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion 
delighted him while it lasted, though he exerted 
himself too much, and the effect was considerable 
lassitude and weakness on his return. During 
tlie expedition he conceived the idea and wrote, 
in the three days immediately succeeding to his 
return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is pecu- 
liarly characteristic of his tastes — wildly fanciful, 
full of brilhant imagery, and discarding human 
interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas 
that his imagination suggested. 

The surpassing excellence of The Ceuci had 
made me greatly desire that Shelley should 
increase his popularity, by adopting subjects that 
would more suit the popular taste, than a poem 
conceived in the abstract and dreamy spirit of the 
Witch of Atlas. It was not only that I wished 
him to acquire popularity as redounding to his 
fame; but I believed that he would obtain a 
greater mastery over his own powers, and greater 
happiness in his mind, if public ajjplause crowned 
his endeavours. The few stanzas that precede 
the poem were addressed to me on my represent- 
ing these ideas to him. Even now I believe that 
I was in the right. Shelley did not expect sym- 
pathy and approbation fi-om the public; but the 
want of it took away a portion of the ardour that 
ought to have sustained him while writing. He 
was thrown on his own resources, and on the in- 
spiration of his own soul, and wrote because his 
mind overflowed, without the hope of being appre- 
ciated. I had not the most distant wish that he 
should truckle in opinion, or submit his lofty aspi- 



306 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820. 



rations for the human race to the low ambition 
and priJe of the many, but I felt sure, that if his 
poems were more addressed to the common feel- 
ings of men, liis proper rank among the writers of 
the day would be acknowledged; and that* popu- 
larity as a poet would enable his countrymen to 
do justice to his character and virtues ; which, in 
those days, it was the mode to attack with the 
most flagitious calumnies and insulting abuse. 
That he felt these things deeply cannot be doubted, 
though he armed himself with the consciousness 
of acting from a lofty and heroic sense of right. 
The truth burst from his heart sometimes in soli- 
tude, and he would write a few unfinished verses 
that showed that he felt the sting ; among such I 
find the following ; 

Alas ! this is not what I thought life was. 
I knew that there were crimes and evil men, 
Misery and hate ; nor did I hope to pass 
Untouched by suifering, through the rugged glen. 
In mine own heart I saw as in a glass 

The hearts of others And when 

I went among my kind, with triple brass 
Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, 
To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful mass ! 

I believed that all this morbid feeling would 
vanish, if the chord of sympathy between him and 
his countrymen were touched. But my persua- 
sions were vain, the mind could not be bent from 
its natural inclination. Shelley shrunk instinc- 
tively from portraying human passion, with its 
mixture of good and evil, of disappointment and 
disquiet. Such opened again the wounds of his 
own heart, and he loved to shelter himself rather 
in the airiest flights of fancy, forgetting love and 
hate, and regret and lost hope, in such imagina- 
tions as borrowed their hues from sunrise or sun- 
set, from the yellow moonshine or pale twilight, 
from the aspect of the far oceair or the shadows of 
the woods; which celebrated the singing of the 
winds among the pines, the flow of a murmuring 
stream, and the thousand harmonious sounds 
which nature creates in her solitudes. These are 
the materials which form the Witch of Atlas ; it 
is a brilliant congregation of ideas, such as his 



senses gathered, and his fancy coloured, during 
his rambles in the sunny land he so much loved. 

Our stay at the baths of San Giuliano was 
shortened by an accident. At the foot of our 
garden ran the canal that communicated between 
the Serchio and the Arno. The Serchio over- 
flowed its banks, and breaking its bounds, this 
canal also overflowed; all this part of the country 
is below the level of its rivers, and the consequence 
was, that it was speedily flooded. The rising 
waters filled the square of the baths, in the lower 
part of which our house was situated. The canal 
overflowed in the garden behind ; the rising waters 
on either side at last burst open the doors, and 
meeting in the house, rose to the height of six 
feet. It was a picturesque sight at night, to see 
the peasants driving the cattle fi-om the plains 
below, to the hills above the baths. A fire was 
kept up to guide them across the ford ; and the 
forms of the men and the animals showed in dark 
relief against the red glare of the flame, which was 
reflected again in the waters that filled the square. 

We then removed to Pisa, and took up our 
abode there for the winter. The extreme mild- 
ness of the climate suited Shelley, and his solitude 
was enlivened by an intercourse with several inti- 
mate friends. Chance cast us, strangely enough, 
on this quiet, half-unpeopled town ; but its very 
peace suited Shelley, — its river, the near moun- 
tains, and not distant sea, added to its attractions, 
and were the objects of many delightful excursions. 
We feared the south of Italy and a hotter climate, 
on account of om- child ; our former bereavement 
inspiring us with terror. We seemed to take root 
here, and moved little afterwards ; often, indeed, 
entertaining projects for visiting other parts of 
Italy, but still delaying. But for our fears, on ac- 
count of our child, I believe we should have 
wandered over the world, both being passionately 
fond of travelling. But human life, besides its 
great unalterable necessities, is ruled by a thou- 
sand liliputian ties, that shackle at the time, al- 
though it is difficult to account afterwards for their 
influence over our destiny. 



POEMS WUITTEN IN MDCCCXXL 



EPIPSYCHIDION: 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE 

LADY EMILIA V . 

NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF . 



"L' anima amante si slancia furio del creato, e si crea nel infinilo un Moniio tutto per essa, diverse assai 
da questo oscuro e pauroso baratro." — Her own words. 



My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few 
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, 
Of sucli hard matter dost thou entertain ; 
Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring 
Thee to base company (as chance may do,) 
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, 
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again. 
My last delight ! tell them that they are dull, 
And bid them own that thou art beautiful. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The writer of the following lines died at Flo- 
rence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of 
the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, 
and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old 
building, and where it was his hope to have real- 
ized a scheme of life suited perhaps to that happier 
and better world of which he is an inhabitant, but 
hardly practicable in this. His hfe was singular ; 
less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which 
diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received 
firom his own character and feelings. The present 
Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufi'icicntly 
intelligible to a certain class of readers without a 
matter-of-fact history of the circumstances to which 
it relates ; and to a certain other class it must ever 



remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a com- 
mon organ of perception for the ideas of which it 
treats. Not but that, gran vergogna sarebbe a 
colui, che rimasse cosa softo veste difigura, o di 
colore rettorico • e domandato non sapesse denu- 
dare It sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che 
avessero verace infeiidiine?ito. 

The present poem appears to have been in- 
tended by the writer as the dedication to some 
longer one. The stanza on the above page is 
almost a literal translation from Dante's famous 
canzone 

Voi ch' intcndendo, il terzo del movetc, &c. 
The presumptuous application of the concluding 
lines to his own composition will raise a smile at 
the expense of my unfortunate friend : be it a 
smile not of contempt, but pity. 



307 



308 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, 
Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, 
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of withered memory. 

Poor captive bird ! who, from thy narrow cage, 
Pourest such music, that it might assuage 
The rugged liearts of tJiose who prisoned thee. 
Were they not deaf to all sweet melody ; 
This song shall be thy rose : its petals pale 
Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale ! 
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom. 
And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost for ever 
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, 
Till those bright plumes of thought, in which 

arrayed 
It oversoared this low and worldly shade. 
Lie shattered ; and thy panting wounded breast 
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest ! 
I weep vain tears : blood would less bitter be. 
Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee. 

Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to be human. 
Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman 
All that is insupportable in thee 
Of light, and love, and immortality ! 
Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse ! 
Veiled glory of this lampless Universe ! 
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Thou living 

Form 
Among the Dead ! Thou Star above the Storm ! 
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror ! 
Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! Thou Mirror 
In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun, 
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on ! 
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now 
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow ; 
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song 
All of its much mortality and wrong, 
With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew 
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens 

through. 
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstacy : 
Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 

I never thought before my death to see 
Youth's vision thus made perfect: Emily, 
I love thee ; though the world by no thin name 
Will hide that love, fi-om its unvalued shame. 
Would we two had been twins of the same mother ! 
Or, that the name my heart lent to another 
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, 
Blending two beams of one eternity ! 
Yet were one lawful and the other true. 
These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, 
How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me ! 
I am not thine : I am a part of thee. 



Sweet Lamp ! my mothlike Muse has burnt its 
wings, 
Or, hke a dying swan who soars and sings. 
Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray 

style, 
All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, 
A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless ] 
A well of sealed and secret happiness, 
Whose waters like blithe light and music are. 
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom T A Star 
Which moves not in the moving Heavens, alone 1 
A smile amid dark frowns ] a gentle tone 
Amid rude voices ] a beloved light ] 
A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight 1 
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play 
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day 
And lull fond grief asleep 1 a buried treasure ? 
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure 1 
A violet-shrouded grave of Wo 1 — ^I measure 
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee. 
And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way. 
And lured me towards sweet Death ; as Night by 

Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, 
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope. 
In the suspended impulse of its lightness, 
Were less ethereall}' light : the brightness 
Of her divinest presence trembles through 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 
Embodied in the windless heaven of June, 
Amid the splendour-winged stars, the Moon 
Burns inextinguishably beautiful : 
And from her lips, as from a hj'acinth fiill 
Of honeydew, a liquid murmur drops. 
Killing the sense with passion : sweet as stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance. 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul — too deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. 
The glor}' of her being, issuing thence. 
Stains the dead, blank cold air with a warm shade 
Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion ; one intense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing 
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowmg 
With the unintermitted blood, which there 
Quivers, (as in a fleece of snowlike air 
The crimson pulse of living morning quiver,) 
Continuously prolonged, and ending never. 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furled 
Which penetrates and clasps and fills the world; 
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress. 
And her loose hair ; and where some heavy tress 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



309 



The air of her own speed has disentwined, 

The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind ; 

And in the soul a wild odour is felt, 

Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt 

Into the bosom of a frozen bud. 

See where she stands ! a mortal shape indued 

With love and life and light and deity, 

And motion which may change but cannot die ; 

An image of some bright Eternity ; 

A shadow of some golden dream ; a Splendour 

Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a tender 

Reflection on the eternal Moon of Love, 

Under whose motions life's dull billows move ; 

A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning ; 

A vision like incarnate April, warning, 

With smiles and tears. Frost the Anatomy 

Into his summer grave. 

Ah ! wo is me ! 
What have I dared 1 where am I lifted ! how 
Shall I descend, and perish not? I know 
That Love makes all things equal : I have heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth averred : 
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod, 
In love and worship blends itself with God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the Fate 
Whose course has been so starless ! O too late 
Beloved ! O too soon adored, by me ! 
For in the fields of immortality 
My spirit should at first have worshipped thine, 
A divine presence in a place divine ; 
Or should have moved beside it on this earth, 
A shadow of that substance, from its birth ; 
But not as now : — I love thee ; yes, I feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright 
For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight. 
We — are we not formed, as notes of music are, 
For one another, though dissimilar ; 
Such difference without discord, as can make 
Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake, 
As trembling leaves in a continuous air 1 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare 
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wreckt. 
I never was attached to that gi-eat sect. 
Whose docti'me is, that each one should select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, 
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend 
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread. 
Who travel to their home among the dead 
By the broad highway of the world, and so 
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe. 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

True Love in this differs from gold and clay, 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Love is like understanding, that grows bright, 
Gazing on many truths ; 'tis like thy light, 
Imagination ! which, from earth and sky, 
And from the depths of human phantasy. 
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills 
The Universe with glorious beams, and kills 



Error, the worm, with many a sunlike arrow 
Of its reverberated lightning. Nan-ow 
The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, 
The life that wears, the spirit that creates 
One object, and one form, and builds thereby 
A sepulchre for its eternity. 

Mine from its object differs most in this: 
Evil from good ; miseiy from happiness ; 
The baser from the nobler ; the impure 
And frail, from what is clear and must endure. 
If you divide suffering and dross, you may 
Diminish till it is consumed away ; 
If you divide pleasure and love and thought. 
Each part exceeds the whole ; and we know not 
How much, while any yet remains unshared. 
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared : 
This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw 
The unenvied light of hope ; the eternal law 
By which those live, to whom this world of life 
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 
Tills for the promise of a later birth 
The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 

\ 

There was a being whom my spirit oft 
Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft, 
In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn, 
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn, 
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves 
Of divine sleep, and on the airlike waves 
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor 
Paved her light steps ; — on an imagined shore, 
Under the gray beak of some promontory 
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory, 
That I beheld her not. In sofitudes 
Her voice came to me through the whispering woods, 
And from the fovnitains, and the odours deep 
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them there, 
Breathed but oiher to the enamoured air; 
And from the breezes whether low or loud, 
And from the rain of every passing cloud. 
And from the singing of the summer birds. 
And from all sounds, all silence. In the words 
Of antique verse and high romance, — in form, 
Sound, colour — in whatever checks that Storm 
Which with the shattered present chokes the past ; 
And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom 
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom ; 
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth. — 

Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth 
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of fire, 
And towards the loadstar of my own desire, 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 
Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light, 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting sphere 
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre. 
As if it were a lamp of earthly flame. — 
But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tame, 
Past, like a God throned on a winged planet, 
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it, 
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade ; 
And as a man with mighty loss dismayed, 



310 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



I would have followed, though the grave between 
Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are unseen : 
When a voice said : — " O Thou of hearts the 

weakest, 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest." 
Then I — "Where?" the world's echo answered 

« where !" 
And in that silence, and in my despair, 
I questioned every tongueless wind that flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
Whither 'twas fled, this soul out of my soul ; 
And murmured names and spells which have 

control 
Over the sightless tyrants of our fate ; 
But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate 
The night which closed on her ; nor unereate 
That world within this Chaos, mine and me, 
Of which she was the veiled Divinity, 
The world I say of thoughts that worshipped her : 
And therefore I went forth, with hope and fear. 
And every gentle passion sick to death. 
Feeding my course with expectation's breath, 
Into the wintry forest of our life ; 
And struggling through its error with vain strife. 
And stumbling in my weakness and my haste, 
And half bewildered by new forms, I past 
Seeking among those untaught foresters 
If I could find one form resembling hers. 
In which she might have masked herself from me. 
There, — One, whose voice was venomed melody 
Sate by a well, under blue nightshade bowers ; 
The breath of her false mouth was like faint 

flowers. 
Her touch was as electric poison, — flame 
Out of her looks into my vitals came. 
And from her living cheeks and bosom flew 
A killing air, which pierced like honeydew 
Into the core of my green heart, and lay 
Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray 
O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime 
With ruins of unseasonable time. 

In many mortal forms, I rashly sought 
The shadow of that idol of my thought. 
And some were fair — but beauty dies away : 
Others were wise — but honeyed words betray : 
And One was true — oh ! why not true to me ] 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee, 
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at bay. 
Wounded, and weak, and panting ; the cold day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 
When, like a noonday dawn, there shone again 
Deliverance. One stood on my path who seemed 
As like the glorious shape which I had dreamed, 
As is the Moon, whose changes ever run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's 

bright isles. 
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles. 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame 
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same, 
And warms not but illumines. Young and fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere, 
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the night 
From its own darkness, until all was bright 



Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm mind, 
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind. 
She led me to a cave in that \yikl place. 
And sat beside me, with her downward face 
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, 
And all my being became bright or dim 
As the Moon's image in a summer sea. 
According as she smiled or frowned on me ; 
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed : 
Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead : — 
For at her silver voice came Death and Life, 
Unmindful each of their accustomed strife. 
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a brother, 
The wandering hopes of one abandoned mother, 
And through the cavern without wings they flew, 
And cried, " Away ! he is not of our crew." 
I wept, and, though it be a dream, I weep. 

What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep. 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning lips 
Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse ; — 
And how my soul was as a lampless sea, 
And who was then its Tempest; and when She 
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, what frost 
Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to coast 
The moving billows of my being fell 
Into a death of ice, immovable ; — [split. 

And then — what earthquakes made it gape and 
The white Moon smiling all the while on it, 
These words conceal : — If not, each word would be 
The key of staunchless tears. Weep not for me ! 

At length, into the the obscure forest came 
The vision I had sought through grief and shame. 
Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns 
Flashed from her motion splendour like the Morn's, 
And from her presence life was radiated 
Through the gi'ay earth and branches hare and dead ; 
So that her way was paved, and roofed above 
With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding love ; 
And music from her respiration spread 
Like light, — all other sounds were penetrated 
By the small, still, sweet sj)irit of that sound. 
So that the savage winds hung mute around ; 
And odours warm and fresh fell fi-om her hair 
Dissolving the dull cold in the froze air : 
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 
When light is changed to love, this glorious One 
Floated into the cavern where I lay, 
And called my Spirit, and the dreaming clay 
Was lifted by the thing that dreamed below 
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 
I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night 
Was penetrating me with living light ; 
I knew it was the Vision veiled fi'om me 
So many years — that it was Emily. 

Thin Spheres of light who rule this passive 
Earth, 
This world of love, this me ; and into birth 
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart 
Magnetic might into its central heart; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and guide 
By everlasting laws each wind and tide 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



311 



To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers 
The armies of the rainbow-winged showers ; 
And, as those married lights, which from the towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering globe 
In liquid sleep and splendour, as a robe ; 
And all their many-mingled influence blend, 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ; — 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway, 
Govern my sphere of being, night and day ! 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed might ; 
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
And, through the shadow of the seasons three, 
From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, 
Light it into the Winter of the tomb, 
Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom. 
Thou too, O Comet, beautiful and fierce, 
Who drew the heart of this frail Universe 
Towards thine own ; till, wreckt in that convulsion, 
Alternating attraction and repulsion, 
Thine went astray, and that was rent in twain ; 
Oh, float into our azure heaven again ; 
Be there love's folding-star at thy return ; 
The li-ving Sun will feed thee from its urn 
Of golden fire ; the Moon will veil her horn 
In thy last smiles ; adoring Even and Morn 
Will worship thee with incense of calm breath 
And lights and shadows ; as the star of Death 
And Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild 
Called Hope and Fear — upon the heart are piled 
Their offerings, — of this sacrifice divine 
A World shall be the altar. 

Lady mine, 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birth 
Which fi-om its heart of hearts that plant puts forth. 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes, 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 

The day is come and thou wilt fly with me. 
To whatsoe'er of dull mortality 
Is ♦iiine, remain a vestal sister still ; 
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable, 
Not mine, but me, henceforth be thou united 
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted, 
The hour is come ; — the destined Star has risen 
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. 
The walls are high, the gatcs^are strong, thick set 
The sentinels — ^but true love never yet 
Was thus constrained : it overleaps all fence : 
Like lightning, with invisible violence 
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's free breath. 
Which he who grasps can hold not ; liker Death, 
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way 
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array 
Of arms : more strength has Love than he or they; 
For he can burst his charnel, and make free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
The soul in dust and chaos. 

Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbour now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor. 
No keel has ever ploughed that path before ; 
The halcyons brood around the foamless isles; 
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles ; 



The merry mariners are bold and fi-ee : 

Say, my sister's heart, wilt thou sail with me ] 

Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 

Is a far Eden of the purple East ; 

And we between her wings, will sit, while Night, 

And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their 

flight. 
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 
Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
It is an isle under Ionian skies, 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
And, for the harbours are not safe and good, 
This land would have remained a solitude 
But for some pastoral people native there, 
Who fi'om the Elysian, clear, and golden air 
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, 
Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold. 
The blue iEgean girds this chosen home, 
With everchanging sound and light and foam. 
Kissing the sifled sands, and caverns hoar ; 
And all the viands wandering along the shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide : 
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ; 
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond. 
As clear as elemental diamond. 
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond. 
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year,) 
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls 
Built round with ivy, which the water falls 
Illumining, with sound that never fails. 
Accompany the noonday nightingales ; 
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs. 
The light clear element which the isle wears 
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers, 
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers, 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep ; 
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep. 
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain 
Till you might faint with that delicious pam. 
And every motion, odour, beam, and tone. 
With that deep music is in unison : 
Which is a soul within a soul — they seem 
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. — 
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea, 
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity ; 
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer, 
Washed by the soft blue Ocean of young air. 
It is a favoured place. Famine or I31ight, 
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never Ught 
Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vultures, they 
Sail onward far upon their fatal way ; 
The winged storms, chaunting their thunder-psalm 
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm 
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew. 
From which its fields and woods ever renew 
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky 
There fall clear exhalations, soft and bright. 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight. 
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside. 
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride 
Glowing all at once with love and loveliness, 
Blushes and trembles at its own excess : 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 



312 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



Burns in the heart of this delicious isle, 

An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile 

Unfolds itself, and may be felt not seen 

O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green, 

Filling their bare and void interstices. — 

But the chief marvel of the wilderness 

Is a lone dwelling, built by whom o'r how 

None of the rustic island-people know ; 

'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height 

It overtops the woods : but, for delight. 

Some wise and tender Ocean King, ere crime 

Had been invented, in the world's young prime, 

Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, 

An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house 

Made sacred to his sister and his spouse, 

It scarce seems now a wreck of human art. 

But, as it were. Titanic; in the heart 

Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown 

Out of the mountains, from the living stone. 

Lifting itself in caverns light and high : 

For all the antique and learned imageiy 

Has been erased, and in the place of it 

The ivy and the wild vine interknit 

The volumes of their many-twining stems ; 

Parasite flowers illumine with dewy gems 

The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky 

Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery 

With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen, 

Or fragments of the day's intense serene ; 

Working mosaic on their Parian floors. 

And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers 

And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem 

To sleep in one another's anns, and dream [we 

Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that 

Read in their smiles, and call reality. 

This isle and house are mine, and I have vowed 
Thee to be lady of the soHtude. 
And I have fittted up some chambers there 
Looking towards the golden Eastern air. 
And level with the living winds, which flow 
Like waves above the living waves below, 
I have sent books and music there, and all 
Those instruments with which high spirits call 
The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present last 
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, 
Folded within their own eternity. 
Our simple life wants little, and true taste 
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste 
The scene it would adorn, and therefore still. 
Nature, with all her children, haunts the hill. 
The ringdove, in the embowering ivy, yet 
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit 
Round the evening tower, and the young stars glance 
Between the quick bats in their twilight dance ; 
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight 
Before our gate, and the slow silent night 
Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep. 
Be this our home in life, and when years heap 
Their withered hours, like leaves, on our decay, 
Let us become the overhanging day. 
The living soul of this Elysian isle, 
Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together, 
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. 



And wander in the meadows, or ascend 

The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens 

bend 
With lightest winds, to touch their paramour 
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore. 
Under the quick faint kisses of the sea 
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstacy, — 
Possessing and possest by all that is 
Within that calm circumference of bliss, 
And by each other, till to love and live 
Be one : — or, at the noontide hour, amve 
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep 
The moonlight of the expired night asleep. 
Through which the awakened day can never peep; 
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 
Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights ; 
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain 
Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again. 
And we will talk, until thought's melody 
Become too sweet for utterance, and it die 
In words, to live again in looks, which dart 
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart. 
Harmonizing silence without a sound. 
Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, 
And our veins beat together ; and our lips. 
With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
The soul that burns between them; and the 

wells 
Which boil under our being's inmost cells. 
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 
Confused in passion's golden purity. 
As mountain-springs under the morning Sun. 
We shall become the same, we shall be one 
Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore two 1 
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew 
Till like two meteors of expanding flame. 
Those spheres instinct with it become the same, 
Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable : 
In one another's substance finding food, 
Like flames too pure and light and unimbued 
To nourish their bright lives with baser prey 
Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away : 
One hope within two wills, one will beneath 
Two overshadowing minds, one life one death. 
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
And one annihilation. Wo is me ! 
The winged words on which my soul would pierce 
Into the height of love's rare Universe, 
Are chains of lead around its flight of fire. — 
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 



Weak verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet. 
And say :■ — " We are the masters of thy slave ; 
" What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine 1 " 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 
All singmg loud: "Love's very pain is sweet, 
But its reward is in the world divme, 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the gi-ave." 
So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste 
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, 
And bid them love each other, and be blest : 
And leave the troop w^iich errs, and which reproves, 
And come and be my guest, — for I am Love's. 



ADONAIS: 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 

AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETC. 



Nuv it Qavwii, XdfiJTUi csmpo; iv (pdiixciiol;. 



PREFACE. 



i>apnaKov t^ds, BicJi/, ttotI aov oro^a, if>apfiaKov e76cs' 
Iltdf Tsv TO If ::(;£iXa7(7£ TrOTcSpajie, kovk tyXu/cai'S?/ ; 
Ti'j 61 l3pords ToaaovTOv dvd^cpo;, 5) xspiaai toi, 
*H iavvai XaXeojrt to (pdpixaKOv • tKipvytii loidv. 

MoscHUs, Epitaph. Bion. 



It is my intention to subjoin to the London 
edition of this poem, a criticism upon the claims 
of its lamented object to be classed among the 
writers of the highest genius who have adorned 
our age. My known repugnance to the narrow 
principles of taste on which several of his earlier 
compositions were modelled, prove at least that I 
am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of 
" Hyperion," as second to nothing that was ever 
produced by a writer of the same years. 

John Keats died at Rome, of a consumption, in 
his twenty-fourth year, on the 27th of December, 
1820, and was buried in the romantic and lonely 
cemetery of the protestants in that city, under the 
pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the 
massy walls and towers, now mouldering and 
desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. 
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, 
covered in winter with violets and daisies. It 
might make one in love with death, to think that 
one should be buried in so sweet a place. 

The genius of the lamented person to whose 
memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses, 
was not less deUcate and fragile than it was 
beautiful ; and where canker-worms abound, what 
wonder, if its young flower was blighted in the bud ] 
The savage criticism on his " Endymion," which 
appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most 
violent effect on his susceptible mind ; the agita- 
tion thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood- 
vessel in the lungs ; a rapid consumption ensued ; 
and the succeeding acknowledgments from more 
candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, 
were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly 
inflicted. 

It may well be said, that these wretched men 
know not what they do. They scatter their insults 
and their slanders without heed as to whether the 
40 



poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by 
many blows, or one, like Keats's, composed of more 
penetrable stuff. One of their associates is, to my 
knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calum- 
niator. As to " Endymion," was it a poem, what- 
ever might be its defects, to be treated contempt- 
uously by those who had celebrated with various 
degi-ees of complacency and panegyric, " Paris," 
and, " Woman," and a "Syrian Tale," and Mrs. 
Lefanu, and Mr. Barret, and Mr. Howard Payne, 
and a long list of the illustrious obscure 1 Are these 
the men, who in their venal good-nature, presumed 
to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman 
and Lord Byron ? What gnat did they strain at 
here, after having swallowed all those camels ] 
Against what woman taken in adultery dares the 
foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his 
opprobrious stone 1 Miserable man ! you, one of 
the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the 
noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. 
Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you 
are, you have spoken daggers, but used none. 

The circumstances of the closing scene of poor 
Keats's life were not made known to me until the 
Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to 
understand that the wound which his sensitive 
spirit had received from the criticism of " Endy- 
mion" was exasperated at the bitter sense of unre- 
quited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have 
been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those 
on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, 
than those on whom he had lavished his fortune 
and his care. He was accompanied to Rome, and 
attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a young 
artist of the highest promise, who, I have been 
informed, " almost risked his own life, and sacrificed 
every prospect, to unwearied attendance upon his 
dying fi-iend." Had I known these circumstances 
before the completion of my poem, I should have 
been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause 
to the more solid recompense which the virtuous 
man finds in the recollection of his own motives. 
Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from " such 
stuff as dreams are made of." His conduct is a 
golden augury of the success of his future career — 
may the extinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend 
animate the creations of his pencil, and plead 
against ObIi\ion for his name ! 

2P 313 



314 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



ADONAIS. 



I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead! 
Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 
And teach them thine own soitow ; say : with me 
Died Adonais ; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a hght unto eternity ! 



Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 
When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died 1 With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath. 
Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the corse 
beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death 



Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! 
Yet wherefore 1 Quench within their burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let tliy loud heart keep. 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 
Descend : — oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on hi'^ mute voice, and laughs at our 
despair. 



Most musical of mourners, weep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died. 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely when his country's pride 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. 
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified. 
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of 
light. 



Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to climb : 
And happier they their happiness who knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 
In which suns perished ; others more sublime, 
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's 
serene abode. 



But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished, 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew. 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, 
And fed with true love tears instead of dew ; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, 
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 



To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
He came ; and bought, with price of purest 
breath, 

A grave among the eternal Come away ! 

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 



He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
Invisible Corruption vsraits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 
di'aw. 



Oh, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of thought, 
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
The love which was its music, wander not 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain. 
But droop there, whence they sprung: and mourn 

their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, 
They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home 

again. 

X. 

And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 
" Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there Hes 
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise ! 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its 
rain. 



A D O N A I S. 



315 



One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his hght limbs, as if embalming them ; 
Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw, 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which I'rozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 

XII. 

Another Splendour on his mouth aiit, 
That mouth whence it was wont to draw the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and v,fith music : the damp death 
Quenched its caress upon its icy lips; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips. 
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to it« 
ecUpse. 

XIII. 

And others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
Winged Persuasions, and veiled Destinies, 
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Tncar- 

Eations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might 

seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 

XIV. 

All he had loved, and moulded into thought 
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound. 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound. 
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground. 
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy Thunder moaned, 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, [dismay. 
And the wild winds flew around, sobbing in their 

XT. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains. 
Or amorous birds perched on the young green 

spray, 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
Than those for whose disdain they pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear [hear. 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen 

XVI. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, [down 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, 
For whom should she have waked the sullen year I 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear. 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonais : wan they stand and sere 
Amid the faint companions of their youth, [ruth. 
With dew all turned to tears ; odour, to sighing 



Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
Her mighty youth, with morning doth complain. 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah wo is me ! Winter is come and gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake, [bier ; 
And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 
And the green lizard, and the golden snake. 
Like unLmprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. 

XIX. 

Through wood and stream and field and hill and 

Ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and motion. 
From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream immersed, 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; 
Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's delight, 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 

XX. 

The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender. 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 
Like incarnations of the stai-s, when splendour 
Is changed to fi-agrance, they illumine death. 
And mock the merrj^ worm that wakes beneath ; 
Nought we know dies. Shall that alone which 

knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning ? th' intense atom glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 

XXT. 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be. 
But for our grief, as if it had not been. 
And grief itself be mortal ! Wo is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we 1 of what scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean [borrow. 
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must 
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, 
Month follow month with wo, and year wake 3^ear 
to sorrow. 

XXII. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
" Wake thou," cried Misery, " childless Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his tears and sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes. 
And all the echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried, " Arise !" 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour 
sprung. 



316 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



XXIII. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 
So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania, 
So saddened round her like an atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way, 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 

XXIV. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped, [steel. 

Through camps and cities rough with stone, and 
And human hearts, which to her aery tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell ; 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than 
Rent the soft Form they never could repel, [they 
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that undesening way. 

XXV. 

In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light [delight. 
Flaslied through those limbs, so late her dear 
« Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, 
As sOent lightning leaves the starless night ! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met 
her vain caress. 

XXVI. 

« Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And in my heartless breast and burning brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive, 
With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art. 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart ! 

XXVII. 

« gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 

Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty 

heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was then 
Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spearl 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee 

like deer. 

XXVIII. 

" The herded wolves, bold only to pursue ; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true. 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how they fled, 
When like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no second blow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them 
lying low. 



" The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn. 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So it is in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or spared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spuit's awful night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came, 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent. 
An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music from his 
tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Midst others of less note, came one fhiil Form, 
A phantom among men, companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm. 
Whose thunder is its kneil ; he, as I gness. 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliless, 
Actseon-like, and now he fJed astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness. 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their 
prey. 

XXXII. 

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow : — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken 1 On the withering flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek 
The life can bum in blood, even while the heart 
may break. 

XXXIII. 

His head was bound with pansies overblown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping ■with the forest's noonday dew. 
Vibrated, as the everbeating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan [band 
Smiled througli their tears ; well knew that gentle 
Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sang new sorrow ; sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured : " Who art 
He answered not, but with a sudden hand [thou 1" 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's. Oh ! tliat it 
should be so ! 



A D N A I S. 



317 



XXXV. 

What softer voice is hushed over the dead 1 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown 1 
What form leans sadly o'er the white deathbed, 
In mockery of monumental stone, 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan 1 
If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise, 
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one; 
Let me not vex, inharmonious sighs. 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of wo ? 
Tlie nameless worm now itself disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all en\'y, hate and wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 
Silent with expectation of the song. 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre 
unstrung. 

XXXVII. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me. 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when th}' fangs o'erflow : 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now, 

xxxvrii. 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion-kites that scream below : 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must flow 
Through time and change, unquenchably the same, 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace, peace I he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of life — 
'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm hke worms witliin our 
living clay. 

XI. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 



He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he ; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 
Which like a morning veil thy scarf had thrown 
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair ! 

XLII. 

He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bkd ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In daa-kness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never wearied love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

XLIII. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling 
All new successions to the forms they wear [there 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 

From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' 
light. 

xLir. 
The splendours of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not : 
Like stars to their appointed height they cUmb, 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there, 

And move like winds of light on dark and stormy 



The inheritors of unfiilfilled renown [thought, 
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal 
Far in the unapparcnt. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved ; 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 

XLVI. 

And many more, whose names on Earth are dark. 
But whose transmitted efiluence cannot die 
So long as fire outli\es the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
" Thou art become as one of us," they cry ; 
" It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid a Heaven of song. 
Assume thy winged thi-one, thou Vesper of our 
throng!" 

2d 2 



318 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



XLTII. 

Who mourns for Adonais 1 oh come forth, 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and night; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink 

When hope has kindled hope, and Im'ed thee to the 
brink. 

XLTiir. 
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
Oh, not of him, but of our joy : 'Tis nought 
That ages, empires, and religions, there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their prey ; 
And he is gathered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their times' decay, 

And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 

XLIX. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness : 
And where its wrecks Hke shattered mountains rise, 
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses di-ess 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness 
Pass, till the Spiiit of tlie spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 

L. 

And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death. 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished 
breath. 



Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountam of a moun.ing mind, 



Break it not thou ! too sm-ely shalt thou find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become 1 

LIT. 

The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — ^Rome's azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words are weak 
The glory they transfuse witii fitting truth to speak. 

tin. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 

Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is past from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman I and what still is dear 
Attracts to crash, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near : 
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can join 

together 

riv. 

That light whose smile kindles the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thiret, now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

Lr. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 



i=J 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



319 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO E*** V***. 

Madoitxa, wherefore hast thou sent to me 

Sweet-basil and mignionette 1 
Embleming love and health, which never yet 
In the same wreath might be. 
Alas, and they are wet ! 
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears ] 
For never rain or dew 
Such fragrance drew 
From plant or flower — the very doubt endears 

My sadness ever new, 
The sighs I breathe, the teai's I shed for thee. 
March, 1821. 



TIME. 



Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years. 

Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep wo 
Are brackish with the salt of human tears ! 

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore, 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, 
Who shall put forth on thee, 
Unfathomable Sea] 



FROM THE ARABIC. 

AN IMITATION 



Mr faint spirit was sitting in the light 

Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 

For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight. 

Bore thee far from me ; 
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, 

Did companion thee. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 

Or the death they bear, 
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove 

With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 

Shall mine cling to thee, 
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love. 

It may bring to thee. 



TO NIGHT. 



SwiFTix walk over the western wave. 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to its rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried 

Wouldst thou me 1 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 

Murmured like a noontide bee. 
Shall I nestle near thy side 1 
Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — • 
Swift be tliine approaching flight. 

Come soon, soon ! 



TO 



Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay, 

Tempts and then flies ; 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship too rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall. 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers ai-e gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day ; 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou — and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep. 



THE FUGITIVES. 



The waters are flashing. 
The white hail is dashing, 
The lightnings are glancing. 
The hoar-spray is dancing — ■ 
Away! 

The whirlwind is roiling. 
The thunder is tolling. 
The forest is swinging. 
The minster bells ringing — 
Come away ! 

The Earth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion : 
Bird, beast, man, and worm, 
Have crept out of the storm — 
Come away ! 

II. 

« Our boat has one sail, 
And the helmsman is pale ; — 
A bold pilot I trow, 
Who should follow us now," — 
Shouted He — 

And she cried : " Ply the oar 
Put off gaily from shore !" — 
As she spoke, bolts of death 
Mixed with hail, specked their path 
O'er the sea. 

And from isle, tower, and rock. 
The blue hcacon-doud broke, 
Though dumb in the blast, 
The red cannon flashed fast 
From the lee. 



« And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ] 
And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ] 
And drive we not free 
O'er the terrible sea, 
I and thou 1" 

One boat-cloak did cover 
The loved and the lover — ■ 
Their blood beats one measure. 
They murmur proud pleasure 

Soft and low ; — 

I 
While around the lashed Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion, 
Is withdrawn and uplifted, 
Sunk, shattered, and shifted. 

To and fro. 



In the court of the fortress 
Beside the pale portress, 
Like a bloodhound well beaten 
The bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame; 

On the topmost watch-turret, 

As a death-boding spirit. 
Stands the gray tyrant flither. 
To his voice the mad weather 
Seems tame ; 

And with curses as wild 
As e'er cling to child, 
He devotes to the blast 
The best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name ! 



LINES. 

Far, far away, ye 
Halcyons of memory ! 
Seek some far calmer nest 
Than this abandoned breast; — • 
No news of your false spring 
To my heart's winter bring ; 
Once having gone, in vain 
Ye come again. 

Vultures, who build your bowers 
High in the Future's towers, 
Withered hopes on hopes are spread. 
Dying joys choked by the dead. 
Will serve your beaks for prey 
Many a day. 



TO 



MixE eyes were dim with tears unshed ; 

Yes, I was firm — thus wert not thou ; — ■ 
My baffled looks did fear yet dread 

To meet thy looks — I could not know 
How anxiously they sought to shine 
With soothing pity upon mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 321 


To sit and curb the soul's mute rage 


I love all that thou lovest, 


Which preys upon itself alone ; 


Spirit of Delight ! 


To curse the life which is the cage 


The fresh Earth in new leaves drest. 


Of fettered grief that dares not groan, 


And the starry night ; 


Hiding from many a careless eye 


Autumn evening, and the morn 


The scorned load of agony. 


When the golden mists are bom. 


Whilst thou alone, then not regarded. 


I love snow, and all the forms 


The [ ] thou alone should be. 


Of the radiant frost : 


To spend years thus, and be rewarded, 


I love waves, and winds, and storms, 


As thou, sweet love, requited me 


Every thing almost 


When none were near — Oh ! I did wake 


W^hich is Nature's, and may be 


From torture for that moment's sake. 


Untainted by man's misery. 


Upon my heart thy accents sweet 


I love tranquil solitude, 


Of peace and pity fell like dew 


And such society 


On flowers half dead ; — thy lips did meet 


As is quiet, wise, and good ; 


Mine tremblingly ; thy dark eyes threw 


Between thee and me 


Their soft persuasion on my brain. 


What difference ] but thou dost possess 


Charming away its dream of pain. 


The things I seek, not love them less. 


We are not happy, sweet ! our state 


I love Love — though he has wings, 


Is strange and full of doubt and fear ; 


And like light can flee. 


More need of words that ills abate ; — 


But, above all other things, 


Reserve or censure come not near 


Spirit, I love thee — • 
Thou art love and life ! come, 


Our sacred friendship, lest there be 


No solace left for thou and me. 


Make once more my heart thy home. 


Gentle and good and mild thou art, 
Nor can I live if thou appear 






Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart 




Away from me, or stoop to wear 


TO 


The mask of scorn, although it be 




To hide the love thou feel'st for me. 


When passion's trance is overpast, 




If tenderness and truth could last 




Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep. 


♦ 


SONG. 


I should not weep, I should not weep ! 




It were enough to feel, to see 


Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 


Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 

And dream the rest — and burn and be 


Spirit of Delight ! 


The secret food of fires unseen. 


Wherefore hast thou left me now 


Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 


Many a day and night ] 




Many a weary night and day 


After the slumber of the year 


'Tis since thou art fled away. 


The woodland violets reappear ; 


How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again 1 
With the joyous and the free 


All things revive in field or grove. 
And sky and sea, but two, which move, 
And for all others, life and love. 


Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 




* 


All but those who need thee not. 




As a lizard with the shade 


LINES 


Of a trembling leaf. 


WRITTEX OX HEAHING THE NEWS OF THE 


Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 


DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 


Even the sighs of grief 




Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 


What ! alive and so bold, Earth 1 


And reproach thou wilt not hear. 


Art thou not overbold 1 


Let me set my mournful ditty 


What ! leapest thou forth as of old 


To a merry measure. 


In the light of thy morning mirth. 


Thou wilt never come for pity, 


The last of the flock of the starry fold ? 


Thou wdlt come for pleasure. 


Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ? 


Pity then will cut away 


Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, 


Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

41 


And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead 1 



322 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



How ! is not thy quick heart cold 1 

What spark is alive on thy hearth 1 
How ! is not his death-knell knolled 1 

And livest thou still, Mother Earth 1 
Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
O'er the embers covered and cold 
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled — 
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead 1 
« Who has known me of old," replied Earth, 

" Or who has my story told ] 
It is thou who art overbold." 

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth 
As she sung, " To my bosom I fold 
All my sons when their knell is knolled, 
And so with living motion all are fed, 
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead. 

" Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth, 
« I grow bolder and still more bold. 

The dead fill me ten thousandfold 

Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth ; 

I was cloudy and sullen and cold. 

Like a fi-ozen chaos uprolled, 

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead 

My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed. 

« Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth, 

" Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, 
In terror, and blood, and gold, 

A torrent of ruin to death from his bhth. 
Leave the millions who follow to mould 
The metal before it be cold. 
And weave into his shame, which like the dead 
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled." 



A FRAGMENT. 

As a violet's gentle eye 

Gazes on the azure sky, 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds ; 

As a gray and empty mist 

Lies like solid Amethyst, 
Over the western mountain it enfolds, 

When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

As a strain of sweetest sound 

Wraps itself the wind around, 
Until the voiceless wind be music too ; 

As aught dark, vain and dull, 

Basking in what is beautiful, 
Is full of light and love. 



GINEVRA* 

WitD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one 
Who staggers forth into the air and sun 
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, 
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever 

♦ This fragment is part of a poem which Shelley in- 
tended to write, founded on a story to be found in the 
first volume of a book entitled " L'Osservatore Fioren- 
tino." 



Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain 

Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 

Of objects and of persons passed like things 

Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, 

Ginevi-a from the nuptial altar went ; 

The vows to which her lips had sworn assent 

Rung in her brain still with a jarring din. 

Deafening the lost intelligence within. 

And so she moved under the bridal veil, 
Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale, 
And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth. 
And darkened her dark locks as moonlight doth, — 
And of the gold and jewels glittering there 
She scarce felt conscious, — but the weary glare 
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light, 
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight. 
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 
Was less heavenly fair — her face was bowed. 
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair 
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair 
Which led from the cathedral to the street; 
And even as she went her light fair feet 
Erased these images. 

The bridemaidens who round her thronging came. 
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame. 
Envying the unenviable ; and others, 
Making the joy which should have been another's 
Their own by gentle sympathy ; and some 
Sighing to thinli of an unhappy home ; 
Some few admiring what can ever lure 
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure 
Of parent's smiles for life's great cheat ; a thing 
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining. 

But they are all dispersed — and lo ! she stands 
Looking in idle grief on her white hands. 
Alone within the garden now her own ; 
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone. 
The music of the merry marriage-bells, 
KilHng the azure silence, sinks and swells; — 
Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams 
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems 
A mockery of itself — when suddenly 
Antonio stood before her, pale as she. 
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride, 
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride, 
And said — Is this thy faith ]" and then as one 
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun 
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise 
And look upon his day of life with eyes 
Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, 
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore 
To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood 
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued 
Said — "Friend, if earthly violence or ill. 
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will 
Of parents, chance, or custom, time or change. 
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge. 
Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech. 
With all their stings and venom, can impeach 
Our love, — we love not : — if the grave, wliich hides 
The victim fi-om the tyrant, and divides 
The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart 
Imperious inquisition to the heart 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



323 



That is another's, could dissever ours, 

We love not." — ^" M^hat ! do not the silent hours 

Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal-bed? 

Is not that ring" a pledge, he would have said, 

Of broken vows, but she with patient look 
The golden circle from her finger took, 
And said—" Accept this token of my faith. 
The pledge of vows to be absolved by death, 
And I am dead or shall be soon — my knell 
Will mix its music with that merry bell ; 
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said 
' We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed V 
The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn 
Will serve unfaded for my bier — so soon 
That even the dying violet will not die 
Before Ginevi-a." The strong fantasy 
Had made her accents weaker and more weak, 
And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek. 
And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere 
Round her, which chilled the burning noon with fear, 
Making her but an image of the thought. 
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought 
News of the terrors of the coming time. 
Like an accuser branded with the crime 
He would have cast on a beloved friend. 
Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end 
The pale betrayer — he then with vain repentance 
Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence — 
Antonio stood and would have spoken, when 
The compound voice of women and of men 
Was heard approaching; he retired, while she 
Was led among the admiring company 
Back to the palace, — and her maidens soon 
Changed her attire for the afternoon, 
And left her at her own request to keep 
An hour of quiet and rest : — like one asleep 
With open eyes and folded hands she lay, 
Pale in the light of the declining day. 

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, 
And in the lighted hall the guests are met ; 
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light 
Of love, and admiration, and delight. 
Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes 
Kindling a momentary Paradise. 
This crowd is safer than the silent wood. 
Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude ; 
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
Tempers the deep emotions of the time 
To spirits cradled in a sunny clime : — 
How many meet, who never yet have met, 
To part too soon, but never to forget 1 
How many saw the beauty, power, and wit 
Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet! 
But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn. 
As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn. 
And unprophetic of the coming hours. 
The matin winds from the expanded flowers 
Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken 
The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken 
From every living heart which it possesses. 
Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, 
As if tlie future and the past were all 
Treasured i' the instant ; — so Gherardi's hall 
Laughed in the mirth of its lord's festival, 



Till some one asked — « Where is the BiideVAnd 

then 
A bridemaid went, and ere she came again 
A silence fell upon the guests — a pause 
Of expectation, as when beauty awes 
All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld ; 
Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled : — 
For whispers passed from mouth to ear which drew 
The colour from the hearer's cheeks, and flew 
Louder and swifter round the company ; 
And then Gherardi entered with an eye 
Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd 
Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud. 

They found Ginevra dead ! if it be death, 
To lie vnthout motion, or pulse, or breath. 
With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stLff", and white, 
And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy light 
Mocked at the speculation they had ovraed. 
If it be death, when there is felt around 
A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare. 
And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair 
From the scalp to the ankles, as it were 
Corruption from the spirit passing forth, 
And giving all it shrouded to the earth. 
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight 
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness : in our night 
Of thought we know thus much of death, — no more 
Than the unborn dream of our life before 
Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore. 
The marriage-feast and its solemnity 
Was tm'ned to funeral pomp — the company. 
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up ; nor they 
Who loved the dead went weeping on their way 
Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise 
Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes. 
On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain, 
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again. 
The lamps which, half-extinguished in their haste, 
Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned feast, 
Showed as it were within the vaulted room 
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom 
Had passed out of men's minds into the air. 
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there. 
Friends and relations of the dead, — and he, 
A loveless man, accepted torpidly 
The consolation that he wanted not. 
Awe in the place of grief within him wrought. 
Their whispers made the solemn silence seem 
More still — some wept, [ ] 

Some melted into tears without a sob, 
And some with hearts that might be heard to throb 
Leant on the table, and at intervals 
Shuddered to hear through the deserted halls 
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came 
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame 
Of every torch and taper as it swept 
From out the chamber where the women kept; — 
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold 
Of pleasures now departed ; then was knolled 
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived. 
And finding death their penitent had shrived, 
Returned hke ravens from a corpse whereon 
A vulture has just feasted to the bone. 
And then the mourning women came. — 



324 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 



THE DIRGE. 



Old winter was gone 
In his weakness back to the mountains hoar, 

And the spring came down 
From the planet that hovers upon the shore 
Where the sea of sunhght encroaches 
On the hmits of wintry night ; — 
If the land, and the air, and the sea, 
Rejoice not when spring approaches, 
We did not rejoice in thee, 

Gine\Ta ! 

She is still, she is cold 

On the bridal couch. 
One step to the white death-bed. 

And one to the bier, 
And one to the charnel — ^and one. Oh where 1 

The dark arrow fled 

In the noon. 

Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled. 
The rats in her heart 
Will have made their nest, 
And the worms be alive in her golden hair ; 
While the spirit that guides the sun 
Sits throned in his flaming chair. 
She shall sleep. 



EVENING. 

PONTE A MARE, PISA. 



The sun is set ; the swallows are asleep ; 

The bats are flitting fast in the gray air ; 
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep ; 

And evening's breath, wandering here and there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream. 
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream. 

There are no dews on the dry grass to-night. 
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; 

The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ; 
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze 

The dust and straws are driven up and down. 

And whirled about the pavement of the town. 

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, 

Immovably unquiet, and for ever 
It trembles, but it never fades away ; 

Go to the [ ] 

You, being changed, will find it then aa now. 

The chasm in which the sun has sunk, is shut 
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud. 

Like mountain over mountain huddled — ^but 
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd. 

And over it a space of watery blue. 

Which the keen evening star is shining through. 



TO-MORROW. 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow 1 

When young and old, and strong and weak. 

Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow. 
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — • 

In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 

We find the thing we fled — To-day. 



A BRIDAL SONG. 

The golden gates of sleep unbar 

Where strength and beauty met together. 
Kindle their image lilie a star 

In a sea of glassy weather. 
Night, with all thy stars look down,— 

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew, — 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 
Let eyes not see their own delight ; — 
Haste, swift Hour, and thy flight 
Oft renew. 

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her ! 

Holy stars, permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake the sleeper. 

Dawn, — ere it be long. 
joy ! O fear ! what will be done 

In the absence of the sun ! 
Come along ! 



A LAMENT. 



Swifter far than summer's flight. 
Swifter far than youth's delight, 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Art thou come and gone: 
As the earth when leaves are dead, 
As the night when sleep is sped. 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left lone, alone. 

The swallow Summer comes again, 
The owlet Night resumes her reign, 
But the wild swan Youth is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou. 
My heart each day desires the morrow. 
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow, 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

Lilies for a bridal bed, 
Roses for a matron's head, 
Violets for a maiden dead, 

Pansies let my flowers be : 
On the living grave I bear, 
Scatter them without a tear. 
Let no friend, however dear. 

Waste one hope, one fear for me. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



325 



THE BOAT, 

ox THE SERCHIO. 



Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, 
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, 
The helm sways idly, hither and thither; 
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, 
And the oars and the sails ; but 'tis sleeping fast. 
Like a beast unconscious of its tether. 

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air. 

And the thin white moon lay withering there, 

To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, 

The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 

Day had kindled the dewy woods 

And the rocks above and the stream below. 

And the vapours in their multitudes. 

And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, 

And clothed with light of aery gold 

The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. 

Day had awakened all things that be, 
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free ; 
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe, 
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee ; 
Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn. 
Glowworms went out on the river's brim. 
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim : 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn, 
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill : 
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun. 
Night's dreams and terrors, every one, 
Fled from the brains which are their prey. 
From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 

All rose to do the task He set to each. 
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ; 
The million rose to learn, and one to teach 
What none yet ever knew or can be known. 

And many rose 
Whose wo was such that fear became desire ; — 
Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; 
They from the throng of men had stepped aside. 
And made their home under the ^rcen hill side. 
It was that hill, whose intervening brow 
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, 
Which the circumfluous plain waving below. 
Like a wide lake of green fertility. 
With streams and fields and marshes bare. 
Divides from the far Apennines — which lie 
Islanded in the immeasurable air. 

" What think you, as she lies in her green cove. 

Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? 

If morning dreams are true, why I should guess 

That she was dreaming of our idleness. 

And of the miles of watery way 

We should have led her by this time of day." — 

-" Never mind," said Lionel, 



« Give care to the wmds, thcj' can bear it well, 
About yon poplar tops ; and see ! 
The white clouds are driving merrily. 



And the stars we miss this morn will light 
More willingly our return to night. — 
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blovys fair ; 
How it scatters Dominic's long black hair ! 
Singing of us, and our lazy motions, 
If I can guess a boat's emotions." — 

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, 

The living breath is fresh behind, 

As, with dews and sunrise fed. 

Comes the laughing morning wind ; — ■ 

The sails are full, the boat makes head 

Against the Serchio's torrent fierce. 

Then flags with intermitting course. 

And hangs upon the wave. 

Which fervid from its mountain source 

Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come,— 

Swift; as fire, tempestuously 

It sweeps into the affrighted sea ; 

In morning's smile its eddies coil. 

Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil. 

Torturing all its quiet light 

Into columns fierce and bright. 

The Serchio, twisting forth 
Between the marble barriers which it clove 
At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm 
The wave that died the death which lovers love, 
Living in what it sought ; as if this spasm 
Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling. 
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm 
Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, 
Down one clear path of effluence crystalline 
Sends its clear waves, that they may fling 
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine : 
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild 
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, 
It rushes to the Ocean. 
Juli/, 1821. 



THE AZIOLA. 

" Do you not hear the Aziola cry 1 
Methinks she must be nigh," 

Said Mary, as we sate 
In dusk, ere the stars were lit, or candles brought ; 

And I, who thought 
This Aziola was some tedious woman, 

Asked, " Who is Aziola 1" How elate 
I felt to know that it was nothing human, 

No mockery of myself to fear and hate ! 

And Mary saw my soul. 
And laughed and said, " Disquiet yourself not, 

'Tis nothing but a Uttle downy owl." 

Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 

Thy music I had heard 
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side. 
And fields and marshes wide, — 

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, 

The soul ever stirred ; 
Unlike and far sweeter than they all : 
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 
Loved thee and thy sad cry. 



336 POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. 


A FRAGMENT. 


LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 


Thet were two cousins, almost like two twins. 




Except that from the catalogue of sins 


I ARISE from dreams of thee 


Nature had razed their love — which could not be 


In the first sweet sleep of night. 


But by dissevering their nativity. 


When the winds are breathing low. 


And so they grew together, like two flowers 


And the stars are shining bright. 


Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers 


I arise from dreams of thee, 


Lull or awaken in their purple prime, 


And a spirit in my feet 


Which the same hand will gather — the same clime 


Has led me — who knows how 1 


Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see 


To thy chamber vrindow, sweet ! 


All those who love, — and who ever loved Uke thee, 




Fiordispina 1 Scarcely Cosimo, 


The wandering airs they faint 


Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow 


On the dark, the silent stream — 


The ardours of a vision which obscure 


The champak odours fail 


The very idol of its portraiture ; 


Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 


He faints, dissolved into a sense of love ; 


The nightingale's complaint. 


But thou art as a planet sphered above. 


It dies upon her heart, 


But thou art Love itself — ruling the motion 


As I must die on thine, 


Of his subjected spirit — such emotion 


beloved as thou art. 


Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May 




Had not brought forth this morn — ^your wedding- 


lift me from the grass ! 


day. 


I die, I faint, I fail ! 




Let thy love in kisses rain 


4 — ~ 


On my lips and eyehds pale. 




My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 


TO 


My heart beats loud and fast, 




Oh ! press it close to thine again. 


OxE word is too oftened profaned 


Where it will break at last. 


For me to profane it, 




One feeling too falsely disdained 




• 


For thee to disdain it. 




One hope is too like despair 


MUSIC. 


For prudence to smother, 




And Pity from thee more dear 




Than that from another. 






I PAVT for the music which is divine. 


I can give not what men call love. 


My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ; 


But wilt thou accept not ' 


Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine. 


The worship the heart lifts above 


Loosen the notes in a silver shower; 


And the Heavens reject not : 


Like an herbless plain for the gentle rain, 


The desire of the moth for the star. 


I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 


Of the night for the morrow, 




The devotion to something afar 


Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound, 


From the sphere of our sorrow. 


More, more ! — ^I am thirsting yet, 




It loosens the serpent which care has bound 




Upon my heart, to stifle it ; 
The dissolving strain, through every vein, 


♦ 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


Passes into my heart and brain. 


GooB-NiGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill 


As the scent of a \'iolet mthered up, 


Which severs those it should unite ; 


Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, 


Let us remain together still. 


When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup. 


Then it will be good night. 


And mist there was none its thirst to slake — ■ 
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew 


How can I call the lone night good. 


On the wings of the wand o'er the waters blue — 


Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight 1 




Be it not said, thought, understood, 


As one who drinks from a charmed cup 


Then it will be good night. 


Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, 




Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, 


To hearts which near each other move 


Invites to love with her kiss divine. 


From evening close to morning light, 




The night is good ; because, my love, 


♦ * * * # 


They never say good-night. 


* » * * 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



327 



TO 



The serpent is shut out from paradise. 

Tlae wounded deer must seek the herb no more 

In which its heart-cure lies : 
The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower, 
Like that from which its mate witli feigned sighs 

Fled in the April hour. 
I too, must seldom seek again 
Near happy friends a mitigated pain. 



Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn content ; 
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown 

Itself indifferent. 
But, not to speak of love, pity alone 
Can break a spirit already more than bent. 

The miserable one 
Turns the mind's poison into food, — 
Its medicine i^' tears, — its evil good. 



Therefore if now I see you seldomer, 

Dear friends, Aeax friend .' know that I only fly 

Your looks because they stir 
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : 
The very comfort that they minister 

I scarce can bear ; yet I, 
So deeply is the arrow gone, 
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. 

IV. 

When I return to my cold home, you ask 
Why I am not as I have ever been 1 

You spoil me for the task 
Of acting a forced part on life's dull scene. — 
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask 

Of author, great or mean, 
In the world's Carnival. I sought 
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. 

T. 

Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot 
With various tiowers, and every one still said, 

"She loves me, ^loves me not."* 

And if this meant a vision long since fled — 
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought — 

If it meant — but I dread 
To speak what you may know too well : 
Still there was truth in the sad oracle. 



The crane o'er seas and forests socks her home ; 
No bird so wild, but has its quiet nest, 

When it no more would roam ; 
The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast 
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, 

And thus, at length, find rest : 
Doubtless there is a place of peace 
Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. 

* See FatLSt. 



I asked her, yesterday, if she believed 
That I had resolution. One who had 

Would ne'er have thus relieved 
His heart with words, — but what his judgment bade 
Would do, and leave the scorner unreheved. 

These verses are too sad 
To send to you, but that I know, 
Happy yourself, you feel another's wo. 



A LAMENT. 

O World ! life 1 time ! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembhng at that where I had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime 1 
No more — Oh, never more ! 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight : 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart with giief, but with deUght 
No more — Oh, never more ! 



SONNET. 

POLITICAL GREATNESS. 



NoR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, 
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, 
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame ; 
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts ; 
History is but the shadow of their shame ; 
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts 
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet, 
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery 
Of their own likeness. What are numbers, knit 
By force or custom ] Man who man would be, 
Must rule the empire of himself! in it 
Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy 
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone. 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 



Orphan hours, the year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours, smile instead. 
For the year is but asleep : 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So White Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rocks the dead-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 



328 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821. 



As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year : — he calm and mild, 

Trembling hours ; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 



January gray is here, 

liike a sexton by her grave ; 

February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 

And April weeps — but, O ye hours ! 

Follow with May's fairest flowers. 



NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1821. 

BY THE EDITOR. 



Mr task becomes inexpressibly painful as the 
year draws near that which sealed our earthly 
fate ; and each poem and each event it records, 
has a real or mysterious connexion with the fatal 
catastrophe. I feel that I am incapable of putting 
on paper the history of those times. The heart of 
the man, abhorred of the poet. 

Who could peep and botanize upon his mother's grave, 

does not appear to me less inexplicably framed 
than that of one who can dissect and probe past 
woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans drawn 
from them in the throes of their agony. 

The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the baths 
of San Giuliano. We were not, as our wont had 
been, alone — friends had gathered round us. 
Nearly all are dead ; and when memory recurs to 
the past, she wanders among tombs: the genius 
with all his blighting errors and mighty powers; 
the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and 
the sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever 
existed more gentle, generous, and fearless ; and 
others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his 
great knowledge and warm sympathy, delight in- 
struction and solace, have joined him beyond the 
grave. A few survive who have felt life a desert 
since he left it. What misfortune can equal death ] 
Change can convert every other into a blessing, or 
heal its sting — death alone has no cure ; it shakes 
the foundations of the earth on which we tread, it 
destroys its beauty, it casts down our shelter, it 
exposes us bare to desolation ; when those we love 
have passed into eternity, " life is the desert and 
the solitude," in which we are forced to linger — 
but never find comfort more. 

There is much in the Adonais which seems now 
more applicable to Shelley himself, than to the 
young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The 
poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn 



he displays towards his calumniators, are as a 
prophecy on his own destiny, when received among 
immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics 
has vanished into emptiness before tlie fame he 
inherits. 

Shelley's favourite taste was boating ; when 
living near the Thames, or by the lake of Geneva, 
much of his life was spent on the water. On the 
shore of every lake, or stream, or sea, near which 
he dwelt, he had a boat moored. He had latterly 
enjoyed this pleasure again. There are no 
pleasure-boats on the Arno, and the shallowness 
of its waters except in winter time, when the stream 
is too turbid and impetuous for boating, rendered 
it chfRcult to get any skiff light enough to float. 
Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty ; he, 
together with a friend, contrived a boat such as the 
huntsmen cany about with them in the Maremma, 
to cross the sluggish but deep streams that inter- 
sect the forests, a boat of laths and pitched canvass ; 
it held three persons, and he was often seen on the 
Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who re- 
monstrated on the danger, and could not understand 
how any one could take pleasure in an exercise 
that risked life. "Ma va per la vita!" they ex- 
claimed. I little thought how true their words 
would prove. He once ventured with a friend, on 
the glassy sea of a calm day, down the Arno and 
round the coast, to Leghorn, which by kcepmg 
close in shore was very practicable. They returned 
to Pisa by the canal, when, missing the direct cut, 
they got entangled among weeds, and the boat 
upset ; a wetting was all the harm done, except 
that the intense cold of his drenched clothes made 
Shelley faint. Once I went down with him to the 
mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high 
and swift, met the tideless sea and disturbed its 
sluggish waters ; it was a waste and dreary scene ; 
the desert sand stretched into a point surrounded 
by waves that broke idly though perpetually around ; 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821. 



329 



it was a scene very similar to Lido, of which he 
had said, — 

I love all waste 
And solitary places ; where we taste 
The pleasure of believing what we see 
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be ; 
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows. 

Our httle boat was of greater use, unaccompanied 
by any danger, when we removed to the baths. 
Some friends Uved at the village of Pugnano, four 
miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in 
our boat, by the canal ; which, fed by the Serchio, 
was though an artificial, a full and picturesque 
stream, making its way under verdant banks 
sheltered by trees that dipped their boughs into the 
murmuring waters. By day, multitudes of ephe- 
mera darted to and fro on the surface ; at night 
the fireflies came out among the shrubs on the 
banks ; the cicale at noonday kept up their hum : 
the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was a 
pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health 
and inconstant spirits ; yet he enjoyed himself 
greatly, and became more and more attached to the 
part of the country where chance appeared to cast 
us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm, situated 
on the height of one of the near hills, surrounded 
by chestnut and pine woods, and overlooking a wide 
extent of country ; or of settling still further in the 
maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his 
slighter and unfinished poems were inspired by 
these scenes, and by the companions around us. 
It is the nature of that poetry however which over- 
flows from the soul oftener to express sorrow and 
regret than joy ; for it is when oppressed by the 
weight of life, and away from those he loves, that 
the poet has recourse to the solace of expression 
in verse. 

Still Shelley's passion was the ocean ; and he 
wished that our summers, instead of being passed 
among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on the 



shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a 
spot. We shrank from Naples from a fear that the 
heats would disagree with Percy ; Leghorn had 
lost its only attraction since our friends who had 
resided there were returned to England ; and 
Monte Nero being the resort of many English, we 
did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of the 
colony of chance travellers. No one then thought 
it possible to reside at Via Reggio, which latterly 
has become a summer resort. The low lands and 
bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of 
the western shores of the Mediterranean, till broken 
by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was a vague 
idea ; but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, 
to see whether it would be feasible to spend a 
summer there. The beauty of the bay enchanted 
him — we saw no house to suit us — but the notion 
took root, and many circumstances, enchained as 
by fatality, occurred to urge him to execute it. 

He looked forward this autumn with great 
pleasure to the prospect of a visit from Leigh Hunt. 
When Shelley visited Lqrd Byron at Ravenna, 
the latter had suggested his coming out, together 
with the plan of a periodical work, in which they 
should all join. Shelley saw a prospect of good 
for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his 
society, and instantly exerted himself to have the 
plan executed. He did not intend liimself joining 
in the work ; partly from pride, not wishing to 
have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by 
associating itwith the compositions of more popular 
writers ; and, also, because he might feel shackled 
in the free expression of his opinions, if any fiiends 
were to be compromised ; by those opinions carried 
even to their utmost extent, he wished to live and 
die, as being in his conviction not only true, but 
such as alone would conduce to the moral improve- 
ment and happiness of mankind. The sale of the 
work might, meanwhile, either really or supposedly, 
be injured by the free expression of his thoughts, 
and this evil he resolved to avoid. 



43 



2e2 



POEMS WEITTEN IN MDCCCXXII. 



THE ZUCCA.* 



Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring, 
And infant Winter laughed upon the land 

All cloudlessly and cold ; — when I, desiring 
More in this world than any understand, 

Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring. 
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand 

Of my poor heart, and o'er the grass and flowers 

Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours. 

Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep 

The instability of all but weeping ; 
And on the earth lulled in her winter sleep 

I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping. 
Too happy Earth ! over thy face shall creep 

The wakening vernal airs, vmtil thou, leaping 
From unremembered dreams shalt [ ] see 

No death divide thy immortality. 

I loved — no, I mean not one of ye, 
Or any earthly one, though ye are dear 

As human heart to human heart may be ; — 
I loved, I know not what — ^but this low sphere. 

And all that it contains, contains not thee, 

Thou, whom, seen nowhere, I feel every where. 

Dim object of my soul's idolatry. 

By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou 
flowest, 

Neither to be contained, delayed, or hidden, 
Making divine the loftiest and the lowest. 

When for a moment thou art not forbidden 
To live within the life which thou bestowest. 

And leaving noblest things, vacant and chidden, 
Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight. 
Blank as the sun after the birth of night. 

In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things 
common. 

In music, and the sweet unconscious tone 
Of animals, and voices which are human. 

Meant to express some feelings of their own ; 
In the soft motions and rare smile of woman. 

In flowers and leaves, and in the fresh grass 
shown. 
Or dying in the autumn, I the most 
Adore thee present, or lament thee lost. 



* Pumpkin. 



And thus I went lamenting, when I saw 
A plant upon the river's margin lie. 

Like one who loved beyond his Nature's law, 
And in despair had cast him down to die ; 

Its leaves which had outlived the frost, the thaw 
Had blighted as a heart which hatred's eye 

Can blast not, but which pity kills ; the dew 

Lay on its spotted leaves hke tears too true. 

The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth 
Had crushed it on her unmatemal breast 



I bore it to my chamber, and I planted 
It in a vase full of the lightest mould ; 
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted 

Fell through the window panes, disrobed of cold, 
Upon its leaves and flowers ; the star which panted 

In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled 
Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light 
Smiled on it from the threshold of the night. 

The mitigated influences of air 

And light revived the plant, and from it grew 
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair, 

Full as a cup with the vuie's burning dew, 
O'erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere 

Of vital warmth, enfolded it anew. 
And every impulse sent to every part 
The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. 

Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong. 
Even if Ihe sun and air had smiled not on it ; 

For one wept o'er it all the winter long 

Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it 

Hour after hour ; for sounds of softest song 
Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it 

To leave the gentle lips on which it slept. 

Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept. 

Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and 
flowers 

On which he wept, the while the savage storm 
Waked by the darkest of December's hours 

Was raving round the chamber hushed and 
warm ; 
The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers, 

The fish were frozen in the pools, the form 
Of every summer plant was dead [ ] 

Whilst this * * * 

January, 1822. 



MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT. 



331 



TO A LADY WITH A GUITAR. 



Ariel to Miranda : — Take 

This slave of music, for the sake 

Of him, who is the slave of thee ; 

And teach it all the harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou, 

Make the delighted spirit glow, 

Till joy denies itself again. 

And, too intense, is turned to pain. 

For by permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken ; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 

From life to life must still pursue 

Your happiness, for thus alone 

Can Ariel ever find his own ; 

From Prospero's enchanted cell, 

As the mighty verses tell. 

To the throne of Naples he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a li\dng meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon, 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel ; 

When you live again on earth. 

Like an unseen Star of birth, 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity ; 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has tracked your steps and served your will. 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 

This is all remembered not ; 

And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 

Imprisoned for some fault of his 

In a body like a grave — 

From you, he only dares to crave. 

For his service and his soiTow, 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought. 

To echo all harmonious thought, 

Felled a tree, while on the steep 

The woods were in their winter sleep, 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine ; 

And dreaming, some of autumn past. 

And some of spring approaching fast. 

And some of April buds and showers. 

And some of songs in July bowers, 

And all of love ; and so this tree, — ■ 

that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 

To live in happier form again : 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 

And taught it justly to reply. 

To all who question skilfully. 



In language gentle as thine own ; 
Whispering in enamoured tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 
And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
For it had learnt all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains. 
And the many-voiced fountains ; 
The clearest echoes of the hills, 
The softest notes of falling rills. 
The melodies of birds and bees. 
The murmuring of summer seas, 
And pattering rain, and breathing dew. 
And airs of evening ; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound. 
Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats through boundless day. 
Our world enkindles on its way — 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it ; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions ; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before. 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder da}'. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved friend alone. 



THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER 
PATIENT. 

"Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain; 

My hand is on thy brow, 
My spirit on thy brain ; 
My pity on thy heart, poor friend ; 

And from my fingers flow 
The powers of life, and like a sign. 

Seal thee from thine hour of wo ; 
And brood on thee, but may not blend 
With thine. 

"Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; 

But when I think that lie 
Who made and makes my lot 
As full of flowers, as thine of weeds. 

Might have been lost hke thee ; 
And that a hand which was not mine 

Might then have chased his agony 
As I another's — ^my heart bleeds 
For thine. 

« Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of 

The dead and the unborn 
Forget thy life and love ; 
Forget that thou must wake for ever ; 

Forget the world's dull scorn ; 
Forget lost health, and the divine 

Feelings which died in youth's brief morn ; 
And forget me, for I can never 
Be thine. 



332 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822. 



« Like a cloud big with a May shower, 
My soul weeps healing rain 

On thee, thou withered flower, 

It breathes mute music on thy sleep, 
Its odour calms thy brain ! 

Its light within thy gloomy breast 
Spreads like a second youth again 

By mine thy being is to its deep 
Possest. 



" The spell is done. How feel you now 1" 

" Better — Quite well," repHed 
The sleeper, — " What would do 
You good when suflering and awake 1 

What cure your head and side 1 — " 
« 'Twould kill me what would cure my pain ; 

And as I must on earth abide 
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break 
My chain." 



FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 



The following fragments are part of a Drama, 
undertaken for the amusement of the individuals 
who composed our intimate society, but left un- 
finished. I have preserved a sketch of the story 
as far as it had been shadowed in the poet's mind. 

An Enchantress, living in one of the islands of 
the Indian Archipelago, saves the life of a Pirate, 
a man of savage but noble nature. She becomes 



enamoured of him ; and he, inconstant to his mortal 
love, for awhile returns her passion ; but at length, 
recalling the memory of her whom he left, and 
who laments his loss, he escapes from the en- 
chanted island and returns to his lady. His mode 
of life makes him again go to sea, and the Enchan- 
tress seizes the opportunity to bring him, by a spirit- 
brewed tempest, back to her island. 



Scene, before the Cavern of the Indian Enchantress. 
The Enchantress comes forth. 

ENCHANTHESS. 

He came like a dream in the dawn of life, 

He fled like a shadow before its noon ; 
He is gone, and my peace is turned to strife, 
And I wander and wane like the weary moon. 
O sweet Echo, wake. 
And for my sake 
Make answer the while my heart shall break ! 

But my heart has a music which Echo's lips, 

Though tender and true, yet can answer not. 

And the shadow that moves in the soul's eclipse 

Can return not the kiss by his now forgot ; 

Sweet lips ! he who hath 

On my desolate path 

Cast the darkness of absence, worse than death ! 

The Enchantress makes her spell : she is answered by a 
Spirit. 

SPIRIT. 

Within the silent centre of the earth 

My mansion is ; where I have lived insphered 

From the beginning, and around my sleep 

Have woven all the wondrous imagery 

Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world ; 

Infinite depths of unknown elements 

Massed into one impenetrable mask ; 

Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins 

Of gold, and stone, and adamantine iron. 

And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven 

I have vvTOught mountains, seas, waves, and clouds, 

And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns 

In the dark space of interstellar air. 

A good Spirit, who watches over the Pirate's fate, 
leads, in a mysterious manner, the lady of his love to 



the Enchanted Isle. She is accompanied by a youth, 
who loves her, but whose passion she returns only with 
a sisterly affection. The ensuing scene takes place 
between them on their arrival at the Isle. 

INDIAN YOUTH AND LADY. 



And if my grief should still be dearer to me 
Than all the pleasures in the world beside, 
Why would you hghten it ? — 

lADT. 

I offer only 
That which I seek, some human sympathy 
In tliis mysterious island. 

INDIAN. 

Oh ! my friend. 

My sister, my beloved ! What do I say ? 
My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know whether 
I speak to thee or her. 

iADT. 

Peace, perturbed heart! 
I am to thee only as thou to mine. 
The passing wind which heals the brow at noon, 
And may strike cold into the breast at night. 
Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most, 
Or long soothe could it linger. 



INDIAN. 



You also loved ? 



But you said 



Loved ! Oh, I love. Methinks 
This word of love is fit for all the world. 
And that for gentle hearts another name [owns 
Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world 
I have loved. 



MISCELLANE OUS. 



333 



IXDIAIf. 

And thou lovest not 1 If so 
Young as thou art, thou canst afford to weep. 

LADT. 

Oh ! would that I could claim exemption 
From all the bitterness of that sweet name, 
I loved, I love, and when I love no more 
Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair 
To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me, 
The embodied vision of the brightest dream, 
Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ; 
The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All famiUar things he touched. 
All common words he spoke, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth. 
As terrible and lovely as a tempest ; 
He came, and went, and left me what I am. 
Alas ! Why must I think how oft we two 
Have sat together near the river springs. 
Under the green pavilion which the willow 
Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain, 
Strewn by the nurslings that linger there, 
Over that islet paved with flowers and moss, 
While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 

snow, 
Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the pine. 
Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own. 

INDIAN. 

Your breath is like soft music, your words are 
The echoes of a voice which on my heai't 



Sleeps like a melody of early days. 
But as you said — 

lADT. 

He was so awful, yet 
So beautiful in mystery and terror, 
Calming me as the loveliness of heaven 
Soothes the unquiet sea: — and yet not so, 
For he seemed stormy, and would often seem 
A quenchless sun masked in portentous clouds ; 
For such his thoughts, and even his actions were ; 
But he was not of them, nor they of him, 
But as they hid his splendour from the earth. 
Some said he was a man of blood and peril, 
And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. 
More need was there I should be innocent. 
More need that I should be most true and kind. 
And much more need that there should be found one 
To share remorse, and scorn, and solitude. 
And all the ills that wait on those who do 
The tasks of ruin in the world of life. 
He fled, and I have followed him. 

INDIAN. 

Such a one 
Is he who was the winter of my peace. 
But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart 
From the far hills, where rise the springs of India, 
How didst thou pass the intervening sea 1 

lADT. 

If I be sure I am not dreaming now, 

I should not doubt to say it was a dream. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO 



The keen stars were twinkling. 
And the fair moon was rising among them, 
Dear * * * ! 
The guitar was tinkling. 
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them 
Again. 
As the moon's soft splendour 
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven 
Is thrown. 
So your voice most tender 
To the strings without soul had then given 
Its own. 

The stars will awaken, 
Though the moon sleep a full hour later, 
To-night ; 
No leaf will be shaken 
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter 
Delight. 
Though the sound overpowers. 
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing 
A tone 
Of some world far from ours. 
Where music and moonlight and feeling 
Are one. 



L- 



THE INVITATION. 

Best and brightest, come away, 
Fairer far than this fair day. 
Which like thee to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn spring, 
Through the winter wandering. 
Found it seems the halcyon morn, 
To hoar February born ; 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kissed the forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free ; 
And waked to music all their fountains. 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains. 
And like a prophetess of May, 
Strewed flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns, 
To the wild wood and the downs — 
To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 



?34 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822. 



Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another's mind, 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 
I leave this notice on my door 
For each accustomed visiter : — ■ 
«I am gone into the fields 
To take what this sweet hour yields ;- 
Reflection, you may come to-morrow, 
Sit by the fireside of Sorrow. — 
You with the unpaid bill. Despair, 
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care, 
I will pay you in the grave. 
Death will listen to )'our stave. 
Expectation too, be off'! 
To-day is for itself enough ; 
Hope in pity mock not wo 
With smiles, nor follow where I go ; 
Long having lived on thy sweet food, 
At length I find one moment good 
After long pain — with all your love, 
This you never told me of." 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun. 
Round stems that never kiss the sun, 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sandhills of the sea. 
Where the melting hoarfrost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets. 
And wind-flowers and violets. 
Which yet join not scent to hue. 
Crown the pale year weak and new ; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east dim and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one, 
In the imiversal sun. 



THE RECOLLECTION. 

Now the last day of many days, 
All beautiful and bright as thou. 
The loveliest and the last, is dead. 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
Up to thy wonted work ! come, trace 
The epitaph of glory dead. 
For now the Earth has changed its face, 
A firown is on the Heaven's brow. 



We wandered to the pine Forest 
That skirts the Ocean foam. 

The lightest vdnd was in its nest, 
The tempest in its home. 



The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep. 

The smile of Heaven lay ; 
It seemed as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies. 
Which scattered from above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 



We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced. 
And soothed by every azure breath, 

That under heaven is blown. 
To harmonies and hues beneath, 

As tender as its own ; 
Now all the tree tops lay asleep. 

Like green waves on the sea. 
As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean woods may be. 

III. 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 

By such a chain was hound. 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 
There seemed from the remotest seat 

Of the wide mountain waste, 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, 
A spirit interfused around 

A thrilhng silent life, 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife ; — ■ 
And still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there, 
Was one fair form that filled with love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 



We paused beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough, 
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky 

Gulfed in a world below ; 
A firmament of purple light. 

Which in the dark earth lay. 
More boundless than the depth of night. 

And purer than the day — 
In which the lovely forests grew, 

As in the upper air. 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn 

And through the dark green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen, 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



335 



And all was interfiased beneath 


As music and splendour 


With an Elysian glow 


Survive not the lamp and the lute. 


An atmosphere without a breath, 


The heart's echoes render 


A softer day below. 


No song when the spirit is mute : — 


Like one beloved the scene had lent 


No song but sad dirges, 


To the dark water's breast, 


Like the wind through a ruined cell, 


Its every leaf and lineament 


Or the mournful surges 


With more than truth exprest. 


That ring the dead seaman's knell. 


Until an en-sious wind crept by. 




Like an unwelcome thought, 


When hearts have once mingled. 


Which from the mind's too faithful eye 


Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 


Blots one dear image out. 


The weak one is singled 


Though thou art ever fair and kind. 


To endure what it once possest. 


The forests ever green, 


0, Love ! who bewailest 


Less oft is peace in S 's mind. 


The frailty of all things here. 


Than calm in waters seen. 


Why choose you the frailest 


February 2, 1822. 


For your cradle, your home, and your bier 1 




Its passions will rock thee. 


A SONG. 


As the storms rock the ravens on high : 


Bright reason will mock thee, 




Like the sun from a wintry sky. 


A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love 


From thy nest every rafter 


Upon a wintiy bough ; 


Will rot, and thine eagle home 


The frozen wind crept on above. 


Leave thee naked to laughter, 


The freezing stream below. 


When leaves fall and cold winds come. 


There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 




No flower upon the ground. 
And little motion in the air 


^ 




Except the mill-wheel's sound. 


THE ISLE. 




Theke was a little lawny islet 


LINES. 


By anemone and violet. 




Like mosaic, paven : 


Whe^j the lamp is shattered, 


And its roof was flowers and leaves 


The light in the dust lies dead — 


Which the summer's breath enweaves. 


When the cloud is scattered. 


Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze 


The rainbow's glory is shed. 


Pierce the pines and tallest trees. 


When the lute is broken, 


Each a gem engraven. 


Sweet tones are remembered not ; 


Girt by many an azure wave 


When the lips have spoken, 


With which the clouds and mountains pave 


Loved accents are soon forgot. 


A lake's blue chasm. 



336 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



^ jTrngment. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 

The Pageant to celebrate the arrival of the Queen. 

A PURSUIVANT. 

Place for the Marshal of the Masque ! 

FIRST SPEAKER. 

What thinkest thou of this quaint masque, which 

turns 
Like morning from the shadow of the night, 
The night to day, and London to a place 
Of peace and joy ] 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

And Hell to Heaven. 

Eight years are gone. 

And they seem hours, since in this populous street 
I trod on grass made green by summer's rain, 
For the red plague kept state within that palace 
Where now reigns vanity — in nine years more 
The roots will be refreshed with civil blood ; 
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven 
That sin and wrongs wound as an orphan's cry. 
The patience of the great Avenger's ear. 

THIRD SPEAKER (ff yOUth.) 

Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see. 

Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden 

By God or man ; — ^'tis like the bright procession 

Of skiey visions in a solemn dream 

From which men wake as from a paradise. 

And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. 

If God be good, wherefore should this be evil 1 

And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw 

Unseasonable poison from the flowers 

Which bloom so rarely in this barren world 1 

Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make the 

present 
Dark as the future ! — 

• **»•« 

When avarice and tyranny, vigilant fear, 
And open-eyed conspiracy, lie sleeping 
As on Hell's threshold ; and all gentle thoughts 
Waken to worship him who giveth joys 
With his own gift. 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

How young art thou in this old age of time ! 
How green in this gray world ! Canst thou not think 
Of change in that low scene, in which thou art 



Not a spectator but an actor ? 

The day that dawns in lire will die in storms, 

Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done ; 

Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found 

My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still 

Be journeying on in this inclement air. 



FIRST SPEAKER. 



That 



Is the Archbishop. 



SECOND SPEAKER. 

Rather say the Pope. 
London will be soon his Rome : he walks 
As if he trod upon the heads of men. 
He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold ; — 
Beside him moves the Babylonian woman 
Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow, 
Mitred adulterer ! he is joined in sin. 
Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge. 

ANOTHER CITIZEN (lifting up Ms eyes.^ 

Good Lord ! rain it down upon him. 

Amid her ladies walks the papist queen, 

As if her nice feet scorned our English earth. 

There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke, 

Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry, 

And others who made base their English breed 

By vile participation of their honours 

With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates. 

When lawyers mask 'tis time for honest men 

To strip the vizor from their purposes. 

****** 

FOURTH SPEAKER (a pursulvmit.') 
Give place, give place ! 

You torch-bearers, advance to the great gate, 
And then attend the Marshal of the Masque 
Into the Royal presence. 

FIFTH SPEAKER (a Ittiv student.') 

What thinkest thou 
Of this quaint show of ours, my aged friend 1 

FIRST SPEAKER. 

I will not think but that our country's wounds 
May yet be healed — ^The king is just and gracious, 
Though vsdcked counsels now pervert his will : 
These once cast off — 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



337 



SECOND SPEAKER. 

As adders cast their skins 
And keep their venom, so kings often change ; 
Councils and councillors hang on one another, 
Hiding the loathsome [ ] 

Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. 

THIRD SPEAKER. 

Oh, still those dissonant thoughts — List, loud music 
Grows on the enchanted air ! And see, the torches 
Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided 
Like waves before an admiral's prow. 



ANOTHER SPEAKER. 



To the Marshal of the Masque ! 



Give place 



THIRD SPEAKER. 



How glorious ! See those throngmg chariots 
RoUing like painted clouds before the wind : 

Some are 
Like curved shells dyed by the azure depths 
Of Lidian seas ; some like the new-bom moon ; 
And some like cars in which the Romans climbed 
(Canopied by Victory's eagle-wings outspread) 
The Capitohan — See how gloriously 
The mettled horses in the torchlight stir 
Their gallant riders, while they check their pride 
Like shapes of some diviner element ! 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

Ay, there they are — 
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees. 
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, 
On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. 
Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan. 
Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. 
These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, 
Who toil not, neither do they spin, — unless 
It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. 
Here is the surfeit which to them who earn 
The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves 
The tithe that will support them till they crawl 
Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health 
Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, 
Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want, 
And England's sin by England's punishment. 
And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, 
Lo, giving substance to my words, behold 
At once the sign and the thing signified — 
A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts, 
Horsed upon stumbling shapes, carted with dung, 
Dragged for a day trora cellars and low cabins, 
And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral 
Of this presentiment, and bring up the rear 
Of painted pomp with misery ! 

SPEAKER. 

'Tis but 
The anti-masque, and serves as discords do 
In sweetest music. Who would love May flowers 
If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw ; 
43 



Or day unchanged by night ; or joy itself 
Without the touch of sorrow 1 



SCENE IL 

^ Chamber in Whitehall. 

Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Westwobth, and 

Archy. 

KING. 

Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept 

This token of your service : your gay masque 

Was performed gallantly. 

Q,UEEN. 

And, gentlemen, 
Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint 

pageant 
Rose on me like the figures of past years, 
Treading their still path back to infancy, 
More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer 
The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept 
To think I was in Paris, where these shows 
Are well devised — 'Such as I was ere yet 
My young heart shared with [ ] the task, 

The careful weight of this great monarchy. 
There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure 
And that which it regards, no clamour lifts 
Its proud interposition. 



My lord of Canterbury. 



ARCHT. 

The fool is here. 



I crave permission of your Majesty 
To order that this insolent fellow be 
Chastised : he mocks the sacred character, 
Scofl's at the stake, and — 

KING. 

What, my Archy ! 
He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears. 
Yet with a quaint and graceful hcensc — Prithee 
For this once do not as Prynne would, were he 
Primate of England. 

He lives in his own world ; and, like a parrot, 
Hung in his gilded prison from the window 
Of a queen's bower over the public way, 
Blasphemes with a bird's mind : — his words, like 

arrows 
Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit, 
Strike sometimes what eludes pliilosophy. 

auEEN. 
Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence 
Ten minutes in the rain : be it your penance 
To bring news how the world goes there. Poor 

Archy ! 
He weaves about himself a world of mirth 
Out of this wreck of ours. 
2F 



338 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1823. 



I take ■with patience as my Master did. 
All scoffs permitted from above. 

KING. 

My Lord, 
Pray overlook these papers. Archy's words 
Had wings, but these have talons. 

aUEEN. 

And the lion 
That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, 
I see the new-born courage in your eye 
Armed to strike dead the spirit of the time. 

* * » * * * « 

Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve. 

And it were better thou hadst still remained 

The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs 

The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer; 

And Opportunity, that empty wolf, 

Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions 

Even to the disposition of thy purpose, 

And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel ; 

And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, 

Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, 

And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, 

As when she keeps the company of rebels. 

Who think that she is fear. This do, lest we 

Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle 

In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream 

Out of our worshipped state. 



* * * And if this suffice not. 

Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst 

They may lick up that scum of schismatics. 

I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring 

What we possess, still prate of christian peace, 

As if those dreadful messengers of wrath, 

Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wi-ong, 

Should be let loose against innocent sleep 

Of templed cities and the smiUng fields, 

For some poor argument of policy 

Which touches our own profit or our pride, 

Where indeed it were christian charity 

To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand : 

And when our great Redeemer, when our God 

Is scorned in his immediate ministers, 

They talk of peace ! 

Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now. 



aiJEEX. 

My beloved lord. 

Have you not noted that the fool of late 

Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words 

Sound like the echoes of her saddest fears 1 

What can it mean 1 I should be loth to think 

Some factious slave had tutored him. 



It partly is, 
That our minds piece the vacant intervals 



Of his wild words with their own fashioning ; 

As in the imagery of summer clouds. 

Or coals in the winter fire, idlers find 

The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts. 

And partly, that the terrors of the time 

Are sown by wandering Rumour in all spirits ; 

And in the lightest and the least, may best 

Be seen the current of the comin?; wind. 



Your brain is overwrought with these deep 

thoughts. 
Come, I will sing to you ; let us go try 
These airs from Italy, — and you shall see 
A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, 
Stamped on the heart by never-erring love 
Liker than any Vandyke ever made, 
A pattern to the unborn age of thee. 
Over whose sweet beauty I have vi'ept for joy 
A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow. 
Did I not think that after we were dead 
Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that 
The cares we waste upon our heavy crown 
Would make it light and glorious as a wreath 
Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. 



Dear Henrietta ! 



SCENE III. 
Hampden, Pym, Cromwell, and the younger Vane. 

HAMPDEN. 

England, farewell ! thou, who hast been my cradle, 

Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave ! 

I held what I inherited in thee 

As pawn for that inheritance of freedom 

Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile : — 

How can I call thee England, or my country 1 

Does the wind hold 1 



The vanes sit steady 
Upon the Abbey-towers. The silver lightnings 
Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke. 
Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. 
Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds 
Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. 

HAMPDEN. 

Hail, fleet herald 
Of tempest ! that wild pilot who shall guide 
Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee. 
Beyond the shot of tyranny ! And thou. 
Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, 
Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, 
Bright as the path to a beloved home, 
O light us to the isles of th' evening land ! 
Like floating Edens, cradled in the glimmer 
Of sunset, through the distant mist of years 
Tinged by departing Hope, they gleam! Lone 
regions, 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



339 



Where power's poor dupes and victims yet have 

never 
Propitiated the savage fear of kings 
With purest blood of noblest hearts ; whose dew 
Is yet unstained with tears of those wlio wake 
To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns ; 
Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo 
Of formal blasphemies ; nor impious rites 
Wrest man's free worship from the God who 

loves 
Towards the worm, who envies us his love, 
Receive thou, young [ ] of Paradise, 

These exiles from the old and sinful world ! 
This glorious clime, this firmament, whose lights 
Dart mitigated influence through the veil 
Of pale-blue atmosphere ; whose tears keep green 
The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth ; 



This vaporous horizon, whose dim round 
Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea. 
Repelling invasion from the sacred towers ; 
Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, 
A low dark roof, a damp and narrow vault : 
The mighty universe becomes a cell 
Too narrow for the soul that owns no master. 
While the loathliest spot 
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest 
Of cradled peace built on the mountain tops, 
To which the eagle-spirits of the free, 
Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn 

the storm 
Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth. 
Return to brood over the [ ] thoughts 

That cannot die, and may not be repelled. 



340 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822. 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



Swift as a spirit hastening to his task 
Of gloiy and of good, the Sun sprang forth 
Rejoicing in his splendour, and the mask 

Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth 
The smokeless altars of the mountain snows 
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth 

Of light, the Ocean's orison arose, 

To which the birds tempered their matin lay. 

All flowers in field or forest which unclose 

Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day, 
Swinging their censers in the element, 
With orient incense lit by the new ray 

Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent 
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling aur ; 
And, in succession due, did continent. 

Isle, ocean, and all things that in them wear 
The form and character of mortal mould, 
Rise as the sun their father rose, to bear 

Their portion of the toil, which he of old 
Took as his own and then imposed on them : 
But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold 

Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem 
The cone of night, now they were laid asleep 
Stretched my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem 

Which an old chestnut flung athwart the steep 

Of a green Apennine : before me fled 

The night ; behind me rose the day ; the deep 

Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head, 
When a strange trance over my fancy grew 
Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread 

Was so transparent, that the scene came through 
As clear as when a veil of light is drawn 
O'er evening hills they glimmer ; and I knew 

That I had felt the freshness of that dawn. 
Bathed in the same cold dew my brow and hair, 
And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn 

Under the selfsame bough, and heard as there 
The birds, the fountains, and the ocean hold 
Sweet talk in music through the enamoured air, 
And then a %ision on my brain was rolled. 



As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay, 
This was the tenor of my walking dream : — 
Methought I sate beside a pubUc way 

Thick strewn with summer dust, and a great stream 
Of people there was hurrying to and fro. 
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam, 



All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know 
Whither he went, or whence he came, or why 
He made one of the multitude, and so 

Was borne amid the crowd, as through the sky 
One of the million leaves of summer's bier ; 
Old age and youth, manhood and infancy. 

Mixed in one mighty ton-ent did appear : 

Some flying from the thing they feared, and some 

Seeking the object of another's fear ; 

And others as with steps towards the tomb. 
Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath. 
And others mournfully witliin the gloom 

Of their own shadow walked and called it death ; 
And some fled from it as it were a ghost. 
Half fainting in the aflliction of vain breath : 

But more with motions, which each other crost 
Pursued or spurned the shadows the clouds threw, 
Or birds within the noonday ether lost. 

Upon that path where flowers never grew. 
And weary with vain toil and faint for thirst. 
Heard not the fountains, whose melodious dew 

Out of their mossy cells for ever hurst ; 

Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told 

Of grassy paths and wood, lawn-interspersed. 

With overarching elms and caverns cold. 

And violet banks where sweet dreamsbrood,but they 

Pursued their serious folly as of old. 

And as I gazed, methought that in the way 
The throng grew wilder, as the woods of .fune 
When the south wind shakes the extinguished day, 

And a cold glare intenser than the noon. 

But icy cold, obscured with bUnding hght 

The sun, as he the stars. Like the young moon 

When on the sunlit limits of the night, 
Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, 
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might 

Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear 

The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim form 

Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair, — 

So came a chariot on the silent storm 

Of its own rushing splendour, and a Shape 

So sate within, as one whom years deform, 

Beneath a dusky hood and double cape. 
Crouching within the shadow of a tomb. 
And o'er what seemed the head a cloud-like crape 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



341 



Was bent, a dun and feint ethereal gloom 
Tempering the light upon the chariot beam ; 
A Janas-visaged shadow did assume 

The guidance of that wonder-winged team ; 
The shapes which drew it in thick lightnings 
Were lost : — I heard alone on the air's soft stream 

The music of their evermoving wings. 

All the four faces of that charioteer 

Had their eyes banded ; little profit brings 

Speed in the van and blindness in the rear, 
Nor then avail the beams that quench the sun 
Or that with banded eyes could pierce the sphere 

Of all that is, has been, or will be done ; 
So ill was the car guided — but it past 
With solemn speed majestically on. 

The crowd gave way, and I arose aghast, 
Or seemed to rise, so mighty was the trance. 
And saw, like clouds upon the thunder's blast, 

The million with fierce song and maniac dance 
Raging around — «uch seemed the jubilee 
As when, to meet some conqueror's advance. 

Imperial Rome poured forth her Uving sea 
From senate-house, and forum, and theatre, 
When r ] upon the fi-ee 

Had bound a yoke, which soon they stopped to bear, 
Nor wanted here the just similitude 
Of a triumphal pageant, for where'er 

The chariot rolled, a captive multitude 

Was driven ; — all those who had grown old in power 

Or misery, — all who had their age subdued 

By action or by suffering, and whose hour 
Was drained to its last sand in weal or wo, 
So that the trunk survived both fruit and flower ;- 

All those whose fame or infamy must grow 
Till the great winter lay the form and name 
Of this green earth with them for ever low ; — 

All but the sacred few who could not tame 
Their spirits to the conqueror's — but as soon 
As they had touched the world with living flame. 

Fled back like eagles to their native noon. 

Or those who put aside the diadem 

Of earthly thrones or gems [ ] 

Were there of Athens or Jerusalem, 

Were neither 'mid the mighty captives seen. 

Nor 'mid the ribald crowd that followed them, 

Nor those who went before fierce and obscene. 
The wild dance maddens in the van, and those 
Who lead it — fleet as shadows on the green, 

Outspeed the chariot, and without repose 
Mix with each other in tempestuous measure 
To savage music, wilder as it grows, 

They^, tortured by their agonizing pleasure, 
Con^^llsed and on the rapid whirlwinds spun 
Of that fierce spirit, whose unholy leisure 



Was soothed by mischief since the world begun. 
Throw back their heads and loose their streaming 

hair ; 
And in their dance round her who dims the sun, 
Maidens and youths fling their wild arms in air 
As their feet twinkle; they recede, and now 
Bending within each other's atmosphere 

Kindle invisibly — and as they glow. 

Like moths by light attracted and repelled, 

Oft to their bright destruction come and go, 

Till like two clouds into one vale impelled 

That shake the mountains when their lightnings 

• mingle 
And die in rain — the fiery band which held 

Their natures, snaps — the shock still may tingle : 
One falls and then another in the path 
Senseless — nor is the desolation single. 

Yet ere I can.say where — the chariot hath 
Past over them — nor other trace I find 
But as of foam after the ocean's wTath 

Is spent upon the desert shore ; — behind. 
Old men and women foully disarrayed. 
Shake their gray hairs in the insulting wind. 

And follow in the dance, with limbs decayed, 
Seeking to reach the light which leaves them stUI 
Farther behind and deeper in the shade. 

But not the less with impotence of will 

They wheel, though ghastly shadows interpose 

Round them and round each other, and fulfil 

Their part, and in the dust from whence they rose 

Sink, and corruption veils them as they lie, 

And past in these performs what [ ] in those. 

Stnick to the heart by this sad pageantrj', 
Half to myself I said — And what is this 1 
Whose shape is that within the car 1 And why — 

I would have added — is all here amiss ? — 

But a voice answered — " Life !" — I turned and 

knew 
(0 Heaven, have mercy on such wretchedness !) 

That what I thought was an old root which grew 
To strange distortion out of the hill side, 
Was indeed one of those deluded crew, 

And that the grass, which methought hung so wide 
And white, was but his thin discoloured hair, 
And that the holes it vainly sought to hide, 

Were or had been eyes : — " If thou canst, forbear 
To join the dance, which I had well forborne !" 
Said the grim Feature of my thought : " Aware, 

« I will unfold that which to this deep scorn 
Led me and my companions, and relate 
The progress of the pageant since the morn ; 

" If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate. 

Follow it thou even to the night, but I 

Am weary." — Then like one who with the weight 

Of his own words is staggered, wearily 
He paused ; and, ere he could resume, I cried, 
" First, who art thou]" — "Before thy memory, 
2f2 



342 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822. 



" I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did and died, 
And if the spark with wliich Heaven ht my spirit 
Had been with purer sentiment supphed, 

« Corruption would not now thus much inherit 
Of what was once Rousseau, — nor this disguise 
Stained that which ought to have disdained to 
wear it ; 

"If I have been extinguished, yet there rise 
A thousand beacons from the spark I bore" — 
"And who are those chained to the carl" — "The 
wise, 

" The great, the unforgottcn, — they who wore 
Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light. 
Signs of thought's empire over thought — their lore 

" Taught them not this, to know themselves ; their 
Could not repress the mysteiy within, [might 
And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night 

" Caught them ere evening." — " Who is he with 

chin 
Upon his breast, and hands crost on his chain 1" — 
" The Child of a fierce hour ; he sought to win 

" The world, and lost all that it did contain 
Of greatness, in its hope destroyed ; and more 
Of fame and peace than virtue's self can gain 

" Without the opportunity which bore 

Him on its eagle pinions to the peak 

From which a thousand climbers have before 

« Fallen, as Napoleon fell." — I felt my cheek 

Alter to see the shadow pass away, 

Whose grasp had left the giant world so weak, 

That every pigmy kicked it as it lay ; 

And much I grieved to think how power and will 

In opposition rule our mortal day. 

And why God made irreconcilable 

Good and the means of good ; and for despair 

I half disdaijied mine eyes' desire to fill 

With the spent vision of the times that were 
And scarce have ceased to be. — "Dost thou be- 
hold," 
Said my guide, « those spoilers spoiled, Voltaire, 

"Frederick, and Paul, Catherine, and Leopold, 
And hoary anarchs, demagogues, and sage — 
names which the world thinks always old, 

" For in the battle life and they did wage, 
She remained conqueror. I was overcome 
By my own heart alone, which neither age, 

" Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now the tomb 
Could temper to its object." — " Let them pass," 
I cried, " the world and its mysterious doom 

" Is not so much more glorious than it was, 
That I desire to worship those who drew 
New figures on its false and fragile glass 



" As the old faded." — " Figures ever new 
Rise on the bubble, paint them as you may ; 
We have but thrown, as those before us threw, 

" Our shadows on it as it past away. 

But mark how chained to the triumphal chair 

The mighty phantoms of an elder day ; 

" All that is mortal of great Plato there 
Expiates the joy and wo his master knew not: 
The star that ruled his doom was far too fair, 

"And life, where long that flower of Heaven 

grew not, 
Conquered that heart by love, which gold, or pain, 
Or age, or sloth, or slavery, could subdue not. 

" And near him walk the [ ] twain, 

The tutor and his pupil, whom Dominion 
Followed as tame as vulture in a chain. 

" The world was darkened beneath either pinion 
Of liim whom fi'om the flock of conquerors 
Fame singled out for her thunder-bearing minion ; 

" The other long outlived both woes and wars. 
Throned in the thoughts of men, and still had kept 
The jealous key of truth's eternal doors, 

" If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt 

Like lightning out of darkness — he compelled 

The Proteus shape of Nature as it slept 

" To wake, and lead him to the caves that held 

The treasure of the secrets of its reign. 

See the great bards of elder time, who quelled 

" The passions which they sung, as by their strain 
May well be known : their li\'ing melody 
Tempers its own contagion to the vein 

" Of those who arc infected with it — I 
Have suffered what I wrote, or viler pain, 
And so my words have seeds of misery !"— • 



[There is a chasm here in the MS. which it is impos- 
sible to fill up. It appears from the conte.xt, that other 
shapes pass, and that Rousseau still stood beside the 
dreamer, as] 

he pointed to a company, 

'Midst whom I quickly recognised the heirs 
Of Cffisar's crime, from him to Constantine ; 
The anarch chiefs, whose force and murderous 



Had founded many a sceptre-bearing line. 

And spread the plague of gold and blood abroad : 

And Gregory and John, and men divine. 

Who rose like shadows between man and God ; 
Till that eclipse, still hanging over heaven. 
Was worshipped by the world o'er which they 
strode. 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



343 



For the trae sun it quenched — « Their power was 
But to destroy," replied the leader : — " I [given 
Am one of those who have created, even 

If it be but a world of agony." — 

" Whence comest thou 1 and whither goest thou "? 

How did thy course begin V I said, " and why 7 

" Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow 

Of people, and my heart sick of one sad thought — 

Speak !" — « Whence I am, I partly seem to know, 

" And how and by what paths I have been brought 
To this dread pass, methinks even thou may'st 

guess ; — 
Why this should be, my mind can compass not ; 

" Whither the conqueror hurries me, still less ; — ■ 
But follow thou, and from spectator turn 
Actor or victim in this wretchedness, 

« And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn 
From thee. Now listen : — In the April prime, 
When all the forest tips began to burn 

« With kindling green, touched by the azure clime 
Of the young year's dawn, I was laid asleep 
Under a mountain, which from unknown time 

" Had yawned into a cavern, high and deep ; 

And from it came a gentle rivulet, 

Whose water, hke clear air, in its calm sweep 

" Bent the soft grass, and kept for ever wet 

The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled the 

grove 
With sounds, which whoso hears must needs forget 

« All pleasure and all pain, all hate and love. 
Which they had known before that hour of rest ; 
A sleeping mother then would dream not of 

« Her only child who died upon her breast 
At eventide — a king would mourn no more 
Tlie crown of which his bf ows were dispossest 

« When the sun lingered o'er his ocean floor, 

To gild his rival's new prosperity. 

Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore 

« Ills, which if ills can find no cure from thee, 
The thought of which no other sleep will quell. 
Nor other music blot from memory, 

" So sweet and deep is the oblivious spell ; 
And whether life had been before that sleep 
The heaven which I imagine, or a hell 

" Like this harsh world in which I wake to weep, 

I know not. I arose, and for a space 

The scene of woods and waters seemed to keep, 

" Though it was now broad day, a gentle trace 
Of light diviner than the coaimon sun 
Sheds on the common earth, and all the place 

" Was filled with magic sounds woven into one 

Oblivious melody, confusing sense 

Amid the gliding waves and shadows dun ; 



" And, as I looked, the bright omnipresence 
Of morning through the orient cavern flowed, 
And the sun's image radiantly intense 

"Burned on the waters of the well that glowed 
Like gold, and threaded all the forest's maze 
With wmding paths of emerald fire ; there stood 

" Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze 

Of his own glory, on the vibrating 

Floor of the fountain, paved with flashing rays, 

« A Shape all Ught, which with onp hand did fling 
Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn. 
And the invisible rain did ever sing 

« A silver music on the mossy lawn ; 
And still before me on the dusky grass. 
Iris her many-coloured scarf had drawn : 

" In her right hand she bore a crystal glass, 
Mantling with bright Nepenthe ; the fierce splen- 
dour 
Fell from her as she moved under the mass 

" Out of the deep cavern, with palms so tender, 
Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow ; 
She glided along the river, and did bend her 

" Head under the dark boughs, till, like a willow. 
Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream 
That whispered with dehght to be its pillow. 

" As one enamoured is upborne in dream 

O'er lily-paven lakes 'mid silver mist, 

To wondrous music, so this shape might seem 

" Partly to tread the waves with feet which kissed 
The dancing foam ; parti}' to glide along 
The air which roughened the moist amethyst, 

" Or the faint morning beams that fell among 
The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees ; 
And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song 

" Of leaves, and winds, and waves, and birds, and 

bees, 
And falling drops moved to a measure new, 
Yet sweet, as on the summer evening breeze, 

" Up from the lake a shape of golden dew 
Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon. 
Dances i' the wind, where never eagle flew ; 

« And still her feet, no less than the sweet tune 
To which they moved, seemed as they moved to blot 
The thoughts of him who gazed on them ; and soon 

" All that was, seemed as if it had been not ; 
And all the gazer's mind was strewn beneath 
Her feet like embers ; and she, thought by thought, 

" Trampled its sparks into the dust of death ; 
As day upon the threshold of the east 
Treads out the lamps of night, until the breath 

" Of darkness reillumine even the least 

Of heaven's li^^ng eyes — like day she came, 

Making the night a dream ; and ere she ceased 



344 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822, 



« To move, as one between desire and shame 
Suspended, I said — If, as it doth seem. 
Thou comest fi-om the realm without a name, 

" Into this valley of perpetual dream, 

Show whence I came, and where I am, and why — 

Pass not away upon the passing stream. 

" ' Arise and quench thy thirst,' was her reply. 
And as a shut lily, stricken by the wand 
Of dewy monoing's vital alchemy, 

" I rose ; and, bending at her sweet command, 
Touched with faint lips the cup she raised. 
And suddenly my brain became as sand, 

" Where the first wave had more than half erased 
The track of deer on desert Labrador ; 
Wliilst the wolf, from which they fled amazed, 

« Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore. 
Until the second bursts ; — so on my sight 
Bursts a new vision, never seen before, 

" And the fair shape waned in the coming light, 
As veil by veil the silent splendour drops 
From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite 

" Of sunrise, ere it tinge the mountain tops ; 
And as the presence of that fairest planet, 
Although unseen, is felt by one who hopes 

" That his day's path may end as he began it, 
In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent 
Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, 

« Or the soft note in which his dear lament 
The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress 
That turned his weary slumber to content ;* 

" So knew I in that light's severe excess 

The presence of that shape which on the stream 

Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, 

" More dimly than a day-appearing dream, 

The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep ; 

A light of heaven, whose half-extinguished beam 

" Through the sick day in which we wake to weep. 
Glimmers, for ever sought, for ever lost ; 
So did that shape its obscure tenor keep 

« Beside my path, as silent as a ghost ; 
But the new Vision and the cold bright car. 
With solemn speed and stunning music, crost 

" The forest, and as if from some dread war 
Triumphantly returning, the loud million 
Fiercely extolled the fortune of her star. 

« A moving arch of victory, the vermilion 
And green and azm-e plumes of Iris had 
Built high over her vk^ind-winged pavilion, 



* The favourite song " Stanco di pascolar le pecco- 
relle," is a Brescian national air. 



" And underneath ethereal glory clad 
The wilderness, and far before ixcr flew 
The tempest of the splendour, which forbade 

" Shadow to fall from leaf and stone ; the crew 
Seemed in that light, like atomies to dance 
Within a sunbeam ; — some upon the new 

" Embroidery of flowers, that did enhance 
The grassy vesture of the desert, played. 
Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance ; 

" Others stood gazing, till within the shade 
Of the great mountain its light left them dim ; 
Others outspeeded it ; and others made 

" Circles around it, like the clouds that swim 
Round the high moon in a bright sea of air ; 
And more did follow, with exulting hymn, 

" The chariot and the captives fettered there : — • 
But all like bubbles on an eddying flood 
Fell into the same track at last, and were 

" Borne onward. I among the multitude 

Was swept — me, sweetest flowers delayed not long ; 

Me, not the shadow nor the solitude ; 

" Me, not that falling stream's Lethean song ; 
Me, not the j^hantom of that early form. 
Which moved upon its motion — but among 

" The thickest billows of that living storm 
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime 
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform. 

" Before the chariot had begun to climb 
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell. 
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme 

" Of him who from the lowest depths of hell. 
Through every paradise and through all gloiy, 
Love led serene, and who returned to tell 

« The words of hate and care ; the wondrous story 
How all things are transfigured except Love ; 
For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary, 

" The world can hear not the sweet notes that move 
The sphere whose light is melody to lovers — 
A wonder worthy of his rhyme — the grove 

" Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, 
The earth was gray with phantoms, and the air 
Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers 

" A flock of vampire-bats before the glare 
Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, 
Strange night upon some Indian vale ; — thus were 

" Phantoms diflfused around ; and some did fling 
Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, 
Behind them ; some like eaglets on the wing 

« Were lost in the white day ; others like elves 
Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes 
Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves : 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 



345 



"And others sate chattering Uke restless apes 
On vulgar hands, * * * 

Soaie made a cradle of the ermined capes 

" Of kingly mantles ; some across the tire 
Of pontifts rode, like demons ; others played 
Under the crown which girt with empire 

" A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made 

Their nests in it. The old anatomies 

Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade 

" Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes 

To reassume the delegated power. 

Arrayed in which those worms did monarchize, 

" Who made this earth their charnel. Others more 

Humble, like falcons, sat upon the fist 

Of common men, and round their heads did soar ; 

" Or Uke small gnats and flies, as thick as mist 
On evening marshes, thronged about the brow 
Of lawjrers, statesmen, priest, and theorist ; — • 

" And otliers, like discoloured flakes of snow 
On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair. 
Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow 

"Which they extinguished ; and, like tears, they were 
A veil to those from whose faint lids they rained 
In drops of sorrow. I becaree aware 

" Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stain'd 
The track in which we moved. After brief space, 
From every form the beauty slowly waned ; 



" From every firmest limb and fairest face 

The strength and freshness fell like dust, and left 

The action and the shape without the grace 

" Of life. The marble brow of youth was cleft 
With care ; and in those eyes where once hope shone, 
Desire, like a lioness bereft 

" Of her last cub, glared ere it died ; each one 
Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly 
These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown 

" In autumn evening from a" poplar tree, 
Each like himself and like each other were 
At first ; but some distorted seemed to be 

" Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air ; 
And of this stuff the car's creative ray 
Wrapt all the busy phantoms that were there, 

" As the sun shapes the clouds ; thus on the way 
Mask after mask fell from the countenance 
And form of all ; and long before the day 

« Was old, the joy which waked like heaven's glance 
The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died ; 
And some grew weary of the ghastly dance, 

" And fell, as I have fallen, by the wayside ; — • 
Those soonest from whose forms most shadows past, 
And least of strength and beauty did abide. 

« Then, what is Hfe 1 I cried."^- 



346 



FRAGMENTS. 



FRAGMENTS.* 



TO . 

Heije, my dear friend, is a new book for you; 

I have already dedicated two 

To other fiiends, one female and one male, 

What you are, is a thing that I must veil ; 

What can this be to those "who praise or rail 1 

I never was attached to that great sect 

Whose doctrine is that each one should select 

Out of the world a mistress or a friend, 

And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend 

To cold oblivion — though it is the code 

Of modern morals, and the beaten road 

Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread 

Who travel to their home among the dead, 

By the broad highway of the world — and so 

With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe, 

The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

Free love has this, different from gold and clay. 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks 
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes 
A mirror of the moon ; like some great glass, 
Which did distort whatever form might pass. 
Dashed into fragments by a playful child, 
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild, 
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express, 
A thousand images of loveliness. 

If I were one whom the loud world held wise, 
I should disdain to quote authorities 
In the support of this kind of love ; — 
Why there is first the God in heaven above. 
Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be 
Reviewed I hear in the next Quarterly; 
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece; 
And Jesus Christ himself did never cease 
To urge all Uving things to love each other, 
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother 
The Devil of disunion in their souls. 

* * * * » 

It is a sweet thing friendship, a dear balm, 
A happy and auspicious bird of calm. 
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean ; 
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion ; 
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are. 
Lifts its bold head into the world's pure air. 
And blooms most radiantly when others die. 
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity ; 
And, with the light and odour of its bloom. 
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb; 
Whose coming is as light and music are 
'Mid dissonance and gloom — a star 

* These fragments do not properly belong to the 
poems of 1622. They are gleanings from Shelley's 
manuscript books and papers; preserved not only be- 
cause they are beautiful in themselves, but as affording 
indications of his feelings and virtues. 



Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone, 

A smile among dark frowns — a gentle tone 

Among rude voices, a beloved light, 

A solitude, a refuge, a delight. 

If I had but a friend! why I have three, 

Even by my own confession ; there may be 

Some more, for what I know; for 'tis my mind 

To call my friends all who are wise and kind, 

And these. Heaven knows, at best are very few, 

But none can ever be more dear than you. 

Why should they be 1 my muse has lost her wings. 

Or like a dying swan who soars and sings 

I should describe you in heroic style. 

But as it is — are you not void of guile 1 

A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless ; 

A well of sealed and secret happiness ; 

A lute, which those whom love has taught to play 

Make music on, to cheer the roughest day ? 



n. 

MUSIC. 

I pant for the music which is divine, 
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; 

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine. 
Loosen the notes in a silver shower, 

Like an herbless plain for the gentle rain, 

I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 

As the scent of a \ioIet withered up, 

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, 

When the hot noon had drained its dewy cup, 
And tank there was none its tliii-st to slake ; 

And the violet lay dead, whilst the odour flew 

On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue. 

Let me drink of the spirit of the sweet sound, 
More, more ; — I am thirsting yet ! 

It loosens the serpent which care had bound 
Upon my heart to stifle it. 

The dissolving strain, through every vein. 

Passes into my heart and brain. 

IIL 

A gentle story of two lovers young. 

Who met ui innocence and died in soitow. 

And of one selfish heart, whose rancour clung 
Like curses on them; arc ye slow to borrow 
The lore of truth from such a tale ? 
Or in this world's deserted vale. 
Do ye not see a star of gladness 
Pierce the shadows of its sadness. 

When yc are cold, that love is a light sent 

From heaven, which none shall quench, to cheer 
the innocent'! 



FRAGMENTS. 



347 



IV. 

I am drunk with the honey wine 
Of the moon-unfokled eglantine, 
Which fairies catch in hyacinth buds :— 
The bats, the dormice, and the moles 
Sleep in the walls or under the sward 
Of the desolate Castle yard ; 
And when 'tis spilt on the summer earth 
Or its fumes arise among the dew. 
Their jocound dreams are full of mirth, 
They gibber their joy in sleep ; for few 
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new ! 

V. 

And who feels discord now or sorrow 1 

Love is the universe to-day — 
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow, 

Darkening Life's labyrinthine way. 

VL 
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 

Thy little footsteps on the sands 
Of a remote and lonely shore; 
The twinkling of thine infant hands 

Where now the worm will feed no more : 
Thy mingled look of love and glee 
When we returned to gaze on thee. 

VIL 

The world is dreary, 

And I am weary 
Of wandeiing on without thee, Mary; 

A joy was ere while 

In thy voice and thy smile, 
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary. 
July, 1819. 

VIIL 

My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone, 
And left me in this dreary world alone ! 
Thy form is here indeed^ — a lovely one — 
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road. 
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode ; 
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, 

Where 
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee 
July, 1819. 

IX. 

And where is truth ? On tombs ? for such to thee 
Has been my heart — and thy dead memory 
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year — 
Unchangingly preserved and buried there. 

X. 

When a lover clasps his fairest. 
Then be our dread sport the rarest. 
Their caresses were like the chaff 
In the tempest, and be our laugh 
His despair — ^her epitaph ! 

When a mother clasps her child, 
Watch till dusty Death has piled 
His cold ashes on the clay ; 
She has loved it many a day — 
She remains, — it fades away. 



XL 

One sung of thee who left the tale untold. 

Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting: 

Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold, 
Which mock the lips with air, when they are 
thirsting. 

xn. 

Ye gentle visitations of calm thought — 
Moods like the memories of happier earth, 
Which, come arrayed in thoughts of httle worth, 

Like stars in clouds by the weak winds enwrought, 
But that the clouds depart and stars remain. 
While they remain, and ye, alas, depart ! 

XHL 

In the cave which wild weeds cover 
Wait for thine ethereal lover; 
For the pallid moon is waning. 
O'er the spiral cypress hanging 
And the moon no cloud is staining. 

It was once a Roman's chamber. 
Where he kept liis darkest revels, 
And the wild weeds twine and clamber ; 
It was then a chasm for devils. 

XIV. 

Rome has fallen, ye see it lying 

Heaped m undistinguished ruin : 
Nature is alone undying. 

XV. 

How sweet it is to sit and read the tales 
Of mighty poets, and to hear the while 
Sweet music, which when the attention fails 
Fills the dim pause 

XVI. 

Wake the serpent not — lest he 
Should not know the way to go, — 
Let him crawl which yet lies sleeping 
Through the deep grass of the meadow ! 
Not a bee shall hear him creeping. 
Not a may-fly shall awaken. 
From its cradling blue-bell shaken, 
Not the starlight as he's sliding 
Through the grass with silent gliding. 

XVIL 

The fitftil alternations of the rain. 

When the chill wind, languid as with pain 

Of its own heavy moisture, here and there 

Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere. 

xvin. 

There is a warm and gentle atmosphere 
About the form of one we love, and thus 
As in a tender mist our spirits are 

Wrapt in the of that which is to us 

The health of life's own life. 

XIX. 

W'hat men gain fairly — that they should possess. 
And children may inherit idleness. 
From him who earns it — I'his is understood ; 
Private injustice may be general good. 



348 



FRAGMENTS. 



But he who gains by base and armed wrong, 
Or guilty fraud, or base compliances, 
May be despoiled ; even as a stolen dress 
Is stripped from a convicted thief, and he 
Left in the nakedness of infamy. 

XX. 

I would not be a king — enough 

Of wo it is to love ; 
The path to power is steep and rough, 

And tempests reign above. 
I would not climb the imperial throne ; 
'Tis built on ice which fortune's sun 

Thaws in the height of noon. 
Then farewell, king, yet were I one. 
Care would not come so soon. 
Would he and I were far away 
Keeping flocks on Himelay ! 

XXI. 

thou immortal deity 

Whose throne is in the depth of human thought, 

1 do adjure thy power and thee 

By all that man may be, by all that he is not, 
By all that he has been and yet must be ! 

XXII. 
ON KEATS, 

WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB SHOULD BE 
INSCEIBED — 

« Here lieth One whose name was writ on water !" 
But ere the breath that could erase it blew, 
Death, in remorse for all that fell slaughter. 
Death, the immortalizing winter flew, [grew 

Athwart the stream, and time's monthly torrent 
A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name 
Of Adonais ! — 

XXIII. 

He wanders like a day-appearing dream, 
Through the dim wildernesses of the mind ; 

Through desert woods and tracts, which seem 
Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined. 



XXIV- 

The rude wind is singing 
The dirge of the music dead. 

The cold worms are clinging 
Where kisses were lately fed. 

XXV. 

What art thou. Presumptuous, who profanest 

The wreath to mighty poets only due. 
Even Vv-hilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest ? 

Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few, 
Who wander o'er the paradise of fame. 

In sacred dedication ever grew, — 
One of the crowd thou art without a name. 
Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear ; 

Bright though it seem, it is not the same 
As that which bound Milton's immortal hair ; 

Its dew is poison and the hopes that quicken 
Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair. 

Are flowers which die almost before they sicken. • 

XXVL 

When soft winds and sunny skies 
With the green earth harmonize. 
And the young and dewy daviTi, 
Bold as an unhunted fawn. 
Up the windless heaven is gone — 
Laugh — for ambushed in the day, 
Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey. 

xxvn. 

The babe is at peace within the womb. 
The corpse is at rest within the tomb. 
We begin m what we end. 

XXVIIL 
EPITAPH. 



These arc two friends whose lives were undivided ; 
So let their memory be, now they have glided 
Under their grave ; let not their bones be parted. 
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted. 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, 



349 



NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1822. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



This morn thy gallant bark 
Sailed on a sunny sea, 

'Tis noon, and tempests dark 
Have wrecked it on the lee. 
Ah wo ! ah wo ! 

By spirits of the deep 

Thou'rt cradled on the billow, 

To thy eternal sleep. 

Thou sleep'st upon the shore 
Beside the knelling surge. 

And sea-nymphs evermore 
Shall sadly chant thy dirge. 
They come ! they come, 



The spirits of the deep, 

While near thy sea-weed pillow 

My lonely watch I keep. 

From far across the sea 
I hear a loud lament. 
By echo's voice for thee 
From ocean's caverns sent. 
O list : O list, 
The spirits of the deep ; 
They raise a wail of sorrow 
While I for ever weep. 



With this last year of the life of Shelley these 
Notes end. They are not what I intended them 
to be. I began with energy and a burning desire 
to impart to the world, in worthy language, the 
sense I have of the virtues and genius of the 
Beloved and the Lost; my strength has failed 
under the task. Recurrence to the past — full of 
its own deep and unforgotten joys and sorrows, 
contrasted with succeeding years of painful and 
solitary struggle, has shaken my health. Days of 
great suffering have followed my attempts to write, 
and these again produced a weakness and languor 
that spread their sinister influence over these notes. 
I dislike speaking of myself, but cannot help apolo- 
gizing to the dead, and to the public, for not hav- 
ing executed in the manner I desired the history I 
engaged to give of Shelley's writings.* 

The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we 
might call that season winter in which autumn 
merged into spring, after the interval of but few 
days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, 
and with extreme beauty. Shelley had conceived 

* I at one time feared that the correction of the press 
might be less exact through my illness; but, I believe 
that it is nearly free from error. No omissions have 
been made in this edition ; (in the last of 1839, they 
were confined to certain passages of " Q.uoen Mab ;") 
some asterisks occur in a few pages, as they did in the 
volume of Posthumous Poems, either because they re- 
fer to private concerns, or because the original manu- 
script was left imperfect. Did any one see the papers 
from which I drew that volume, the wonder would be 
how any eyes or patience were capable of extracting it 
from so confused a mass, interlined and broken into 
fragments, so that the sense could only be deciphered 
and joined by guesses, which might seem rather intuitive 
than founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake 
was made. 



the idea of writing a tragedy on the subject of 
Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted 
for a drama ; full of intense interest, contrasted 
character, and busy passion. He had recommended 
it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt 
a play. Whether the subject proved more difficult 
than he anticipated, or whether in fact he could not 
bend his mind away from the broodings and wan- 
derings of thought, divested from human interest, 
which he best loved, I cannot tell ; but he pro- 
ceeded slowly, and threw it aside for one of the 
most mystical of his poems, « The Triumph of 
Life," on which he was employed at the last. 

His passion for boating was fostered at this time 
by having among our friends several sailors; his 
favouiite companion, Edward Ellerker Williams, 
of the 9th Light Dragoons, had begun his life 
in the navy, and had afterwards entered the army ; 
he had spent several years in India, and his love 
for adventure and manly exercises accorded with 
Shelley's taste. It was their favourite plan to 
build a boat such as they could manage themselves, 
and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at every hour 
and season the pleasure they loved best. Captain 
Roberts, R. N., undertook to build the boat at 
Genoa, where he was also occupied in building the 
Bolivar for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open 
boat, on a model taken from one of the royal dock- 
yards. I have since heard that there was a defect 
in this model, and that it was never sea-worthy. 
In the month of February, Shelley and his friend 
went to Spezia to seek for houses for us. Only 
one was to be found at all suitable ; however, a 
trifle such as not finding a house could not stop 
Shelley ; the one found was to serve for all. It 



350 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 182 2. 



was unfurnished ; we sent our furniture by sea, 
and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from 
his impatience, made our removal. We left Pisa 
on the 26th of April. 

The bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and 
divided by a rocky promontory into a larger and 
smaller one. The town of Lerici is situated on 
the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller 
bay, wliich bears the name of this town, is the 
village Sant' Arenzo. Our house, Casa Magni, 
was close to this village ; the sea came up to the 
door, a steep hill sheltered it behind. The pro- 
prietor of the estate on which it was situated was 
insane ; he had begun to erect a large house at the 
summit of the hill behind, but his malady prevented 
its being finished, and it was falling mto ruin. He 
had, and this to the Italians had seemed a glaiing 
sympton of very decided madness, rooted up the 
olives on the hill side, and planted forest trees ; 
these were mostly young, but the plantation was 
more in English taste than I ever elsewhere saw 
in Italy ; some fine walnut and ilex trees inter- 
mingled their dark massy foliage, and formed 
groups which still haunt my memory, as then they 
satiated the eye, vrith a sense of loveliness. The 
scene was indeed of unimaginable beauty ; the 
blue extent of waters, the almost land-locked bay, 
the near castle of Lerici, shutting it in to the east, 
and distant Porto Venere to the west ; the varied 
forms of the precipitous rocks that bound in the 
beach, over which there was only a winding rug- 
ged footpath towards Lerici, and none on the 
other side ; the tideless sea leaving no sands nor 
shingle, — formed a picture such as one sees in 
Salvator Rosa's landscapes only: sometimes the 
sunsliine vanished when the sirocco raged — the 
ponente, the wind was called on that shore. The 
gales and squalls, that hailed our first arrival, sur- 
rounded the bay with foam ; the howling wind 
swept round our exposed house, and the sea 
roared unremittingly, so that we almost fancied 
ourselves on board sliip. At other times sunshine 
and calm invested sea and sky, and the rich tints 
of Itahan heaven bathed the scene ua bright and 
ever-varying tints. 

The natives were wilder than the place. Our 
near neighbours, of Sant' Arenzo, were more like 
savages than any people I ever before lived among. 
Many a night they passed on the beach, singing or 
rather howling, the women dancing about among 
the waves that broke at their feet, the men leaning 
against the rocks and joining in their loud wild 
chorus. We could get no provisions nearer than 
Sarzana, at a distance of three miles and a half 



off, with the torrent of the Magra between ; and 
even there the supply was very deficient. Had we 
been wrecked on an island of the South Seas, we 
could scarcely have felt ourselves further from 
civilization and comfort ; but where the sun shines 
the latter becomes an unnecessary luxury, and we 
had enough society among ourselves. Yet I con- 
fess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task, 
especially as I was suffering m my health, and 
could not exert myself actively. 

At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was 
expected with great impatience. On Monday, 
May 12th, it came. Wilhams records the long- 
wished-for fact in his journal : " Cloudy and threat- 
ening weather. M. Maglian called, and after 
dinner and while walking with him on the terrace 
we discovered a strange sail coming round the 
point of Porto Venere, which proved at length to 
be Shelley's boat. She had left Genoa on Thurs- 
day last, but had been driven back by the prevail- 
ing bad winds. A Mr. Heslop and two EngUsh 
seamen brought her round, and they speak most 
highly of her performances. She does indeed ex- 
cite my surprise and admiration. Shelley and I 
walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off the land 
to try her; and I find she fetches whatever she 
looks at. In short, we have now a perfect play- 
thing for the summer." — It was thus that short- 
sighted mortals welcomed death, he having disguised 
his grim form in a pleasing mask ! The time of 
the fi-iends was now spent on the sea ; the weather 
became fine, and our whole party often passed the 
evenings on the water, when the wind promised 
pleasant sailing. Shelley and Williams made 
longer excursions; they sailed several times to 
Massa ; they had engaged one of the seamen who 
brought her round, a boy, by name Charles Vivian : 
and they had not the slightest apprehension of 
danger. When the weather was unfavourable, 
they employed themselves with alterations in the 
rigging, and by building a boat of canvass and 
reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the 
other, for the convenience of landing in waters 
too shallow for the larger vessel. When Shelley 
was on board, he had his papers vrith him ; and 
much of the " Triumph of Life" was written as 
he sailed or weltered on that sea which was soon 
to engulf him. 

The heats set in, in the middle of June ; the 
days became excessively hot, but the sea breeze 
cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always 
put Shelley in spirits : a long drought had pre- 
ceded the heat, and prayers for rain were being 
put up in the churches, and processions of relics 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 182 2. 



351 



for the same effect took place in every town. At 
this time we received letters announcing the 
arrival of Leigh Hunt at Pisa. Shelley was very- 
eager to see him. I was confined to my room by 
severe illness, and could not move ; it was agreed 
that Shelley and Williams should go to Leghorn 
in the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed 
our minds ! Living on the sea-shore, the ocean 
became as a plaything: as a child may sport with 
a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest and 
spreads destruction over all, so did we fearlessly and 
blindly tamper with danger, and make a game of the 
terrors of the ocean. Our Italian neighbours even 
trusted themselves as far as Massa in the skiff; and 
the running down the line of coast to Leghorn, 
gave no more notion of peril than a fair-weather 
inland navigation would have done to those who 
had never seen the sea. Once, some months 
before, Trelawny had raised a warning voice as to 
the difference of our calm bay, and the open sea 
beyond ; but Shelley and his friend, with their 
one sailor boy, thought themselves a match for 
the storms of the Mediterranean, in a boat which 
they looked upon as equal to all it was put to do. 

On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow 
of future ill darkened the present hour, such was 
over my mind when they went. During the whole 
of our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of 
coming evil brooded over my mind, and covered 
this beautiful place, and genial summer, with the 
shadow of coming misery — I had vainly struggled 
with these emotions — they seemed accounted for 
by my illness, but at this hour of separation they 
recurred with renewed violence. I did not antici- 
pate danger for them, but a vague expectation of 
evil shook me to agony, and I could scarcely bring 
myself to let them go. The day was calm and 
clear, and a fine breeze rising at twelve they 
weighed for Leghorn ; they made the run of about 
fifty miles in seven hours and a half: the Bolivar 
was in port, and the regulations of the health-office 
not permitting them to go on shore after sunset 
they borrowed cushions from the larger vessel, and 
slept on board their boat. 

They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The 
want of rain was severely felt in the country. The 
weather continued sultry and fine. I have heard 
that Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits 
Not long before, talking of presentiment, he had 
said the only one that he ever found infallible, 
was the certain advent of some evil fortune when 
he felt pecuUarly joyous. Yet if ever fate 
whispered of coming disaster, such inaudible, but 
not unfelt, prognostics hovered around us. The 
beauty of tlie place seemed unearthly in its excess : 



the distance we were at from all signs of civiliza- 
tion the sea at our feet, its murmurs or its roaring 
for ever in our ears, — all these things led the mini 
to brood over stiange thoughts, and, lifting it from 
every-day life, caused it to be familiar with the 
unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us, and each 
day, as the voyagers did not return, we grew rest- 
less and disquieted, and yet, strange to say, w« 
were not fearful of the most apparent danger. 

The spell snapped, it was all over ; an interva\ 
of agonizing doubt — of days passed in miserabla 
journeys to gain tidings, 9f hopes that took firmei 
root, even as they were more baseless — were 
changed to the certainty of the death that eclipsed 
all happiness for the survivors for evermore. 

There was something in our fate peculiarly 
harrowing. The remains of those we lost were 
cast on shore ; but by the quarantine laws of the 
coast, we were not permitted to have possession 
of them — the laws, with respect to every thing 
cast on land by the sea, being, that such should be 
burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant 
bringing the plague into Italy ; and no representa- 
tion could alter the law. At length, through the 
kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our 
Charge d'Affaires at Florence, we gained per- 
mission to receive the ashes after the bodies were 
consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of 
Trelawny in carrying our wishes into effect. He 
was indefatigable in his exertions, and full of fore- 
thought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was 
a fearful task : he stood before us at last, his hands 
scorched and bhstered by the flames of the funeral 
pyre, and by touching the burnt relics as he placed 
them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose. 
And there, in compass of that small case, was 
gathered all that remained on earth of him whose 
genius and virtue were a crown of glory to the 
world — whose love had been the source of happiness 
peace, and good, — to be buried with him ! 

The concluding stanzas of the Adonais pointed 
out where the remains ought to be deposited ; in 
addition to which our beloved child lay buried in 
the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley's ashes 
were conveyed, and they rest beneath one of the 
antique weed-grown towers that recur at intervals 
in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. 
The vignette of the title page, is taken from a 
sketch made on the spot by Captain Roberts. He 
selected the hallowed place himself; there is the 

Sepulchre, 

O, not of him, but of our joy ! 

***** 
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time 
Feeds like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid, with wedge sublime. 



352 



EDITOR'S NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822. 



Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble; and boneath 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished 
breath. 

Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering 
anguish at the vacancy left behind, be soothed 
by poetic imaginations, there was something in 
Shelley's fate to mitigate pangs, which yet alas ! 
could not be so mitigated ; for hard reality brings 
too miserably home to the mourner, all that is lost 
of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that 
remains. Still though dreams and hues of poetry 
cannot blunt grief, it invests his fate with a sublime 
fitness, which those less nearly allied may regard 
with complacency. A year before, he had poured 
into verse all such ideas about death as gave it a 
glory of its own. He had, as it now seems, almost 
. anticipated his own destiny ; and when the mind 
figures his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder- 
storm, as it was last seen upon the purple sea ; and 
then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away, no 
sign remained where it had been* — who but 

* Captain Roberts watched the vessel with his glass 
from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its home- 



vnW regard as a prophecy the last stanza of the 
" Adonais V 

The breath, whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven, 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng, 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven I 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
The soul of Adonais like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal are. 

ward track. They were off Via Reggie, at some distance 
from shore, when a storm was driven over the sea. It 
enveloped them and several larger vessels in darkness. 
When the cloud passed onward, Roberts looked again, 
and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except 
their little schooner, which had vanished. From that 
time he could scarcely doubt the fatal truth ; yet we 
fancied that they might have been driven towards Elba, 
or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation made as 
to the spot where the boat disappeared, caused it to be 
found, through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. 
It had gone down in ten fathom water ; it had not 
capsized, and, except such things as had floated from 
her, every thing was found on board exactly as it had 
been placed when they sailed. The boat itself was 
uninjured. Roberts possessed himself of her, and decked 
her, but she proved not seaworthy, and her shattered 
planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the Ionian 
islands, on which she was wrecked. 

Putney, May, \st, 1839. 



PREFACE 



TO THE VOLUME OF POSTHUMOUS POEMS, 
PUBLISHED IN 1824. 



In nobil sansrue, vita umile e queta, 

Ed in alto intelletto un puro core ; 

Frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore, 

E in aspetto pensoso, anima lieta. — Petrarca. 



It had been my wish, on presenting the public 
with the Posthumous Poems of Shelley, to have 
accompanied them by a biographical notice : as it 
appeared to me, that at this moment a narration 
of the events of my husband's life would come 
more gracefully from other hands than mine, I ap- 
plied to Leigh Hcxt. The distinguished friend- 
ship that Shelley felt for him, and the enthusiastic 
affection with which Leigh Hunt clings to his 
friend's memory, seemed to pomt him out as the 
person best calculated for such an undertaking. 
His absence from this country, which prevented 
our mutual explanation, has unfortunately rendered 
my scheme abortive. I do not doubt but that on 
some other occasion he will pay this tribute to his 
lost friend, and sincerely regret that the volume 
which I edit has not been honoured by its insertion. 

The comparative solitude in which Shelley 
lived, was the occasion that he was personally 
knovni to few ; and his fearless enthusiasm in the 
cause which he considered the most sacred upon 
earth, the improvement of the moral and physical 
state of mankind, was the chief reason why he, 
like other illustrious reformers, was pursued by 
hatred and calunmy. No man was ever more 
devoted than he, to the endeavour of making those 
around him happy ; no man ever possessed friends 
more unfeignedly attached to him. The ungrateful 
world did not feel his loss, and the gap it made 
seemed to close as quickly over his memory as the 
murderous sea over his living frame. Hereafter 
men will lament that his transcendant powers of 
intellect were extinguished before they had be- 
stowed on them their choicest treasures. To his 
friends his loss is irremediable : the wise, the brave 
the gentle, is gone for ever ! He is to them as a 
bright vision, whose radiant track, left behind in 
the memory, is worth all the realities that society 
can afford. Before the critics contradict me, let 
them appeal to any one who had ever known him : 
to see him was to love him ; and his presence, like 
Ithuriel's spear, was alone sufficient to disclose 
the falsehood of the tale which his enemies 
whispered in the ear of the ignorant world. 

His life was spent in the contemplation of na- 
ture, in arduous study, or in acts of kindness and 
affection. He was an elegant scholar and a pro- 
45 



found metaphysician: without possessing much 
scientific knowledge, he was unrivalled in the 
justness and extent of his observations on natural 
objects ; he knew every plant by its name, and 
was familiar with the history and habits of every 
production of the earth ; he could interpret without 
a fault each appearance in the sky, and the varied 
phenomena of heaven and earth filled him with 
deep emotion. He made his study and reading- 
room of the shadowed copse, the stream, the lake, 
and the waterfall. Ill health and continued pain 
preyed upon his powers ; and the solitude in which 
we lived, particularly on our first arrival in Italy, 
although congenial to his feelings, must frequently 
have weighed upon his spirits ; those beautiful and 
affecting " Lines, written in dejection at Naples," 
were composed at such an interval ; but when in 
health, his spirits were buoyant and youthful to an 
extraordinary degree. 

Such was his love for nature, that every page 
of his poetry is associated in the minds of his friends 
with the loveliest scenes of the countries which he 
inhabited. In early life he visited the most beautiful 
parts of this country and Ireland. Afterwards the 
Alps of Switzerland became his inspirers. " Pro- 
metheus Unbound" was written among the deserted 
and flower-grown ruins of Rome ; and when he 
made his home under the Pisan hills, their roofless 
recesses harboured him as he composed "The 
Witch of Atlas," " Adonais," and " Hellas." In 
the wild but beautiful bay of Spezia, the winds 
and waves which he loved became his playmates. 
His days were chiefly spent on the water; the 
management of his boat, its alterations and im- 
provements, were his principal occupation. At 
night, when the unclouded moon shone on the 
calm sea, he often went alone in his little shallop 
to the rocky caves that bordered it, and sitting be- 
neath their shelter wrote " The Triumph of Life," 
the last of his productions. The beauty but 
strangeness of this lonely place, the refined 
pleasure which he felt in the companionship of a 
few selected friends, our entire sequestration from 
the rest of the world, all contributed to render this 
period of his life one of continued enjoyment. I 
am convinced that the two months we passed there 
were the happiest which he had ever known : his 
2 o 2 3->3 



354 



PREFACE TO POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



health even rapidly improved, and he w^as never 
better than when I last saw him, full of spirits and 
joy, embark for Leghorn, that he might there wel- 
come Leigh Hunt to Italy. I was to have ac- 
companied him, but illness confined me to my room, 
and thus put the seal on my misfortune. His 
vessel bore out of sight with a favourable wind, 
and I remained awaiting his return by the breakers 
of that sea which was about to engulf him. 

He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind 
ofEces towards his friends, and enjoying with keen 
delight the renewal of their intercourse. He then 
embarked with Williams, the chosen and beloved 
sharer of his pleasures and of his fate, to return to 
us. We waited for them in vain ; the sea by its 
restless moaning seemed to desire to inform us of 

what we would not learn : but a veil may well 

be drawn over such misery. The real anguish of 
those moments transcended all the fictions that 
the most glowing imagination ever portrayed : our 
seclusion, the savage nature of the inhabitants of 
the surrounding villages, and our immediate vicinity 
to the troubled sea, combined to imbue with strange 
horror our days of uncertainty. The truth was 
at last known, — a truth that made our loved and 
lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every 
heart echoed the deep lament, and my only con- 
solation was in the praise and earnest love that 
each voice bestowed and each countenance demon- 
strated for him we had lost, — not, I fondly hope, 
for ever : his unearthly and elevated nature is a 
pledge of the continuation of his being, although in 
an altered form. Rome received his ashes ; they are 
deposited beneath its weed-grown wall, and " the 
world's sole monument" is enriched by his remains. 



I must add a fev/ words concerning the contents 
of this volume. "Julian and Maddalo," "The 
Witch of Atlas," and most of the Translations, 
were written some years ago ; and, with the excep- 
tion of " The Cyclops," and the Scenes from the 
" Magico Prodigioso," may be considered as hav- 
ing received the author's ultimate corrections. 
" The Triumph of Life" was his last work, and 
was left in so unfinished a state, that I arranged 
it in its present form with great difficulty. All his 
poems which were scattered in periodical works 
are collected in this volume, and I have added a 
reprint of " x\lastor, or the Spirit of Solitude :" — 
the difficulty with which a copy can be obtained 
is the cause of its republication. Many of the 
Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the 
occasion, and never retouched, I found among his 
manuscript books, and have carefully copied. I 
have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the 
date of their composition. 

I do not know whether the critics will reprehend 
the insertion of some of the most imperfect among 
them ; but I frankly own that I have been more 
actuated by the fear lest any monument of his 
genius should escape me, than the wish of pre- 
senting nothing but what was complete to the 
fastidious reader. I feel secure that the Lovers of 
Shelley's Poetry (who know how more than any 
poet of the present day every line and word he 
wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will pardon 
and thank me : I consecrate this volume to them. 



Mahx W. Shelley. 



London, June 1st, 1824. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



HYMNS OF HOMEE. 



HYMN TO MERCURY. 



Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, 

The Herald-child, king of Arcadia 
And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love 

Having been interwoven, modest May 
Bore Heaven's dread Supreme — an antique grove 

Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay 
In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, 
And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then. 



Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, 
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, 

She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, 
A schemer subtle beyond all belief; 

A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, 
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief. 

Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, 

And other glorious actions to achieve. 



The babe was born at the first peep of day ; 

He began playing on the lyre at noon, 
And the same evening did he steal away 

Apollo's herds ; — the fourth day of the moon 
On which him bore the venerable May, 

From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, 
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep. 
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep. 



Out of the lofty cavern wandering 

He found a tortoise, and cried out — «A 
treasure!" 
(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) 

The beast before the portal at his leisure 
The flowery herbage was depasturing. 

Moving his feet in a deliberate measure 
Over the turf. Jove's profitable son 
Eyeing him laughed, and laughing thus begun : — 



« A useful godsend are you to me now, 
King of the dance, companion of the feast, 

Lovely in ail your nature ! Welcome, you 

Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain 
beast. 

Got you that speckled shell 1 Thus much I know. 
You must come home with me and be my 
guest; 

You will give joy to me, and I will do 

All that is in my power to honour you. 



"Better to be at home than out of door; 

So come with me, and though it has been said 
That you alive defend from magic power, 

I know you will sing sweetly when you're 
dead." 
Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, 

Lifting it from the grass on which it fed. 
And grasping it in his delighted hold, 
His treasured prize into the cavern old. 



Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel. 
He bored the life and soul out of the beast — 

Not swifi;er a swift thought of wo or weal 
Darts through the tumult of a human breast 

Which thronging cares annoy — 'not swifter wheel 
The flashes of its torture and unrest 

Out of the dizzy eyes — than Maia's son 

All that he did devise hath featly done. 



And through the tortoise's hard strong skin 

At proper distances small holes he made, 

And fastened the cut stems of reeds within, 

And with a piece of leather overlaid 
The open space and fixed the cubits in. 
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o'er all 
Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical. 

35- 



358 



TRANSLATIONS. 



When he had wrought the lovely instrument, 
He tried the chords, and made division meet 

Preluding with the plectrum, and there went 
Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet 

Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent 
A strain of unpremeditated wit 

Joyous and wild and wanton — ^such you may 

Hear among revellers on a holiday. 

X. 

He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal 
Dallied in love not quite legitimate ; 

And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, 
And naming his own name, did celebrate ; 

His mother's cave and servant maid she planned all 
In plastic verse, her household stuff and state, 

Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan — 

But singing he conceived another plan. 

xr. 

Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, 

He in his sacred crib deposited 
The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet 

Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain's 
head. 
Revolving in his mind some subtle feat 
Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might 
Devise in the lone season of dun night. 

XII. 

Lo ! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has 
Driven steeds and chariot — the child meanwhile 
strode 

O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, 
Where the immortal oxen of the God 

Are pasturing in the flowering unmown meadows. 
And safely stalled in a remote abode — 

The archer Argicidc, elate and proud. 

Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. 

XIII. 

He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, 
But, being ever mindful of his craft. 

Backward and forward drove he them astray. 
So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft : 

His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray. 
And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft 

Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs. 

And bound them in a lump with withy twigs. 

XIV. 

And on his feet he tied these sandals light. 

The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray 

His track ; and then, a self-sufficing wight. 
Like a man hastening on some distant way. 

He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight ; 

But an old man perceived the infant pass [grass. 

Down green Onchestus, heaped like beds with 

XT. 

The old man stood dressing his sunny vine : 
" Halloo ! old fellow with the crooked shoulder 

You gi-ub those stumps ] Before they will bear wine 
Methinks even you must grow a little older : 

Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine. 

As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder — 

Seeing, see not — and hearing, hear not — and — 

If you have understanding — understand." 



So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast ; 

O'er shadowy mountain and resounding dell. 
And flower-paven plains, great Hermes past ; 

Till the black night divine, which favouring fell 
Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast 

Wakened the world to work, and from her cell, 
Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime 
Into her watch-tower just began to climb. 

XVII. 

Now to Alpheus he had driven all 

The broad foreheaded oxen of the Sun ; 

They came unwearied to the lofty stall 
And to the water-troughs which ever run 

Through the fresh fields — and when with rushgrass 
Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one [tall 

Had pastured been, the Great God made them move 

Towards the stall in a collected drove. 

XVIII. 

A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped. 
And having soon conceived the mystery 

Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stript 
The bark, and rubbed them in his palms, — on high 

Suddenly forth the burning vapour leapt. 
And J-he divine child saw delightedly — 

Mercury first found out for human weal 

Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint, and steel. 

XIX. 

And fine dry logs and roots innumerous 
He gathered in a delve upon the gi'ound — 

And kindled them — and instantaneous [around : 
The strength of the fierce flame was breathed 

And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus 
Wrapt the great pile with glare and roaring sound, 

Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, 

Close to the fire — such might was in the God. 

XX. 

And on the earth upon their backs he threw 
The panting beasts, and rolled them o'er and o'er, 

And bored their lives out. Without more ado 
He cut up fat and flesh, and down before 

The fire on spits of wood he placed the two. 
Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore 

Pursed in the bowels ; and while this was done 

He stretched their hides over a craggy stone. 

XXI. 

We mortals let an ox grow old, and then 
Cut it up after long consideration, — ■ 

But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen 
Drew the fat spoils to the more open station 

Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them ; and 
He had by lot assigned to each a ration [when 

Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware 

Of all the joys which in religion are. 

XXII. 

For the sweet savour of the roasted meat 

Tempted him, though immortal. Nathelesse 

He checked his haughty will and did not eat. 
Though what it cost him words can scarce express, 

And every wish to put such morsels sweet 
Down his most sacred throat, he did repress ; 

But soon within the lofty portalled stall 

He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all. 



HYMN TO MERCURY. 



359 



And every trace of the fresh butchery 

And cooking, the God soon made disappear, 

As if it all had vanished through the sky ; [hair, — 
He burned the hoofs and horns and head and 

The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily ; 
And when he saw that every thing was clear, 

He quenched the coals and trampled the black dust, 

And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed. 

XXIV. 

All night he worked in the serene moonshine — ■ 
But when the light of day was spread abroad 

He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. 
On his long wandering, neither man nor god 

Had met him, since he killed Apollo's kine. 
Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road ; 

Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed, 

Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast. 

XXT. 

Right through the temple of the spacious cave 
He went with soft light feet — as if his tread 

Fell not on earth ; no sound their falling gave ; 
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread 

The swaddling clothes about him ; and the knave 
Lay playing with the covering of the bed. 

With his left hand about his knees — the right 

Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. 

XXTI. 

There he lay innocent as a new-born child, 

As gossips say ; but, though he was a god, 
The goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled 

Knew all that he had done, being abroad ; 
" Whence come you, and from what adventure wild. 

You cunning rogue, and where have you abode 
All the long night, clothed in your impudence 1 
What have you done since you departed hence ? 

xxvri. 
"Apollo soon will pass within this gate, 

And bind your tender body in a chain 
Inextricably tight, and fast as fiite. 

Unless you can delude the God again, 
Even when within his arms — ah, runagate ! 

A pretty torment both for gods and men 
Your father made when he mad» you !" — " Dear 

mother," 
Replied sly Hermes, " wherefore scold and bother? 

XXVIII. 

« As if I were like other babes as old, 

And understood nothing of what is what ; 

And cared at all to hear my mother scold. 

I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, [rolled. 

Which, whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are 
Will profit you and me — nor shall our lot 

Be as you counsel, without gifts or food. 

To spend our Uves in this obscure abode. 

XXIX. 

"But we will leave this shadow peopled cave, 
And live among the Gods, and pass each day 

In high communion, sharing what they have 
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey 

And, from the portion which my father gave 
To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, 

Which if my fother will not — nathelesse I, 

Who am the king of robbers, can but try. 



« And, if Latona's son should find me out, 
I'll countermine him by a deeper plan ; 

I'll pierce the Pythian temple walls, though stout, 
And sack the fane of every thing I can — 

Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, 
Each golden cup and polished brazen pan. 

All the wrought tapestries and garments gay." — 

So they together talked ; — meanwhile the Day 

XXXI. 

Ethereal born, arose out of the flood 
Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. 

Apollo passed toward the sacred wood. 

Which from the inmost depths of its green glen 

Echoes the voice of Neptune, — and there stood 
On the same spot in green Onchestus then 

That same old animal, the vine-dresser. 

Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. 

XXXII. 

Latona's glorious Son began : — " I pray 
Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, 

Whether a drove of kine has past this way, 

All heifers with crooked horns ] for they have been 

Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, 

Where a black bull was fed apart, between 

Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen. 

And four fierce- dogs watched there, unanimous as 
men. 

XXXIII. 

« And, what is strange, the author of this theft 
Has stolen the fatted heifers every one. 

But the four dogs and the black bull are left : — 
Stolen they were last night at set of sun. 

Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft — 
Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, 

Have you seen any one pass with the cows'?" — 

To whom the man of overhanging brows, — 

XXXIV. 

" My friend, it would require no common skill 
Justly to speak of every thing I see ; 

On various purposes of good or ill 

Many pass by my vineyard, — and to me 

'Tis difficult to know the invisible [be : — 

Thoughts, which in all those many minds may 

Thus much alone I certainly can say, 

I tilled these vmes till the decline of day, 

XXXV. 

« And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak 
With certainty of such a wondrous thing, 

A child who could not have been born a week. 
Those fair-horned cattle closely following. 

And in his hand he held a polished stick : 
And, as on purpose, he walked wavering 

From one side to the other of the road. 

And with his face opposed the steps he trod." 

XXXTI. 

Apollo, hearing this, passed quickly on — 

No winged omen could have shown more clear 

That the deceiver was his father's son. 
So the God wraps a purple atmosphere 

Around liis shoulders, and like fire is gone 
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there. 

And found their track and his, yet hardly cold. 

And cried — " What wonder do mine eyes behold ! 



360 



TRANSLATIONS. 



xxxTir. 

"Here are the footsteps of the horned herd 

Turned back toward their fields of asphodel; — 

But these ! are not the tracks of beast or bird, 
Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, 

Or maned Centaur — sand was never stirred 
By man or woman thus ! Inexplicable ! 

Who with unwearied feet could e'er impress 

The sand with such enormous vestiges ! 

XXXVIII. 

« That was most strange, — but this is stranger still !" 
Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously 

Sought high Cyllene's forest-cinctured hill, 
And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie, 

And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will 
Bore the Saturnian's love-child, Mercury — 

And a dehghted odour from the dew 

Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew. 

XXXIX. 

And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof 
Arched over the dark cavern : — ■Maia's child 

Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, 

About the cows of which he had been beguiled, 

And over him the fine and fragrant woof 

Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled — ■ 

As among firebrands lies a burning spark 

Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark. 

XL. 

There, like an infant who had sucked his fill, 
And now was nev^ly washed and put to bed, 

Awake, but courting sleep with weary will 

And gathered in a lump hands, feet, and head, 

He lay, and his beloved tortoise still 

He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade ; 

Phoebus the lovely mountain goddess knew. 

Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who 

XLI. 

Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook 
Of the ample cavern, for his kine Apollo 

Looked sharp ; and when he saw them not, he took 
The glittering key, and opened three great hollow 

Recesses in the rock — where many a nook 

Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow, 

And mighty heaps of silver and of gold 

Were piled within — a wonder to behold ! 

XLir. 

And white and silver robes, all overwrought 
With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet — 

Except among the Gods there can be nought 
In the wide world to be compared with it 

Latona's offspring, after having sought 
His herds in every comer, thus did greet 

Great Hermes : — " Little cradled rogue, declare, 

Of my illustrious heifers, where they are ! 

XLIII. 

« Speak quickly ! or a quarrel between us 
Must rise, and the event will be, that I 

Shall haul you into dismal Tartarus, 
In fiery gloom to dwell eternally ! 

Nor shall your father nor your mother loose 
The bars of that black dungeon — utterly 

You shall be cast out from the light of day, 

To rule the ghosts of men, unblest as they." 



To whom thus Hermes slighly answered : — " Son 
Of great Latona, what a speech is this ] 

Why come you here to ask me what is done 
With the wild oxen which it seems you miss 1 

I have not seen them, nor fi-om any one 
Have heard a word of the whole business ; 

If you should promise an immense reward, 

I could not tell more than you now have heard. 

XLV. 

« An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, 
And I am but a httle new-born thing. 

Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong :— 
My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling 

The cradle-clothes about me all day long, — • 
Or, half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, 

And to be washed in water clean and warm. 

And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm. 

XLTI. 

" Oh, let not e'er this quarrel be averred ! 

The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e'er 
You should allege a story so absurd, 

As that a new-born infant forth could fare 
Out of his home after a savage herd. 

I was born yesterday — my small feet are 
Too tender for the roads so hard and rough :— 
And if you think that this is not enough, 

XLVII. 

" I swear a great oath, by my father's head. 
That I stole not your cows, and that I know 

Of no one else who might, or could, or did. — 
Whatever things cows are I do not know. 

For I have only heard the name." — This said, 
He winked as fast as could be, and his brow 

Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he. 

Like one who hears some strange absurdity. 

XLVIII. 

Apollo gently smiled and said : — « Ay, ay, — 
You cunning little rascal, you will bore 

Many a rich man's house, and your array 
Of thieves will lay their siege before his door. 

Silent as night, in night ; and many a day 
In the wild gl^ns rough shepherds will deplore 

That you or yours, having an appetite. 

Met with their cattle, comrade of the night ! 

XLIX. 

" And this among the Gods shall be your gifl;. 
To be considered as the lord of those [lift ; — 

Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop- 
But now if you would not your last sleep doze, 

Crawl out!" — Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift 
The subtle infant in his swaddling-clothes, 

And in his arms, according to his wont, 

A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont. 



And sneezed and shuddered — Phoebus on the grass 
Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed 

He did perform — eager although to pass, 
Apollo darted firom his mighty mind 

Towards the subtle babe the following scoff: 

« Do not imagine this will get you off, 



HYMN TO MERCURY. 



361 



« You little swaddled child of Jove and May !" 
And seized him : — " By this omen I shall trace 

My noble herds, and you shall lead the way." — 
Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, 

Like one in earnest haste to get away, 

Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face, 

Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew 

His swaddling clothes, and — " What mean you to do 

LII. 

« With me, you unkind God ]" — said Mercury : 
" Is it about these cows you teaze me so 1 

I wish the race of cows were perished ! — I 
Stole not your cows — I do not even know 

What things cows are. Alas ! I well may sigh, 
That, since I came into this world of wo, 

I should have ever heard the name of one — • 

But I appeal to the Saturnian's throne." 

LIII. 

Thus Phoebus and the vagi-ant Mercury 
Talked without coming to an explanation. 

With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he 
Sought not revenge, but only information, 

And Hermes tiied with lies and roguery 
To cheat Apollo. — But when no evasion 

Served — for the cunning one his match had found — 

He paced on first over the sandy ground. 

iiv. 

He of the Silver Bow, the child of Jove, 
Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire 

Came both his children — beautiful as Love, 
And from his equal balance did require 

A judgment in the cause wherein they strove. 

O'er odorous Olympus and its snows 

A murmuring tumult as they came arose, — 

LV. 

And from the folded depths of the great Hill, 
While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood 

Before Jove's throne, the indestructible 
Immortals rushed in mighty multitude ; 

And, whilst their seats in order due they fill, 
The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood 

To Phojbus said : — " Whence drive you this sweet 

This herald-baby, bom but yesterday ] — [prey, 

LTI. 

"A most important subject, trifler, this 

To lay before the Gods ! — " Nay, father, nay, 

When you have understood the business. 
Say not that I alone am fond of prey. 

I found this little boy in a recess 

Under Cyllene's mountains far away — 

A manifest and most apparent thief, 

A scandal-monger beyond all belief. 

IVII. 

« I never saw his like either in heaven 
Or upon earth for knavery or crafl : — 

Out of the field my cattle yester even, 

By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, 

He right down to the river-ford had driven ; 
And mere astonishment would make you daft 

To see the double kind of footsteps strange 

He has impressed wherever he did range. 
46 



« The cattle's track on the black dust full well 

Is evident, as if they went towards 
The place from which they came — that asphodel 

Meadow, in which I feed my many herds ; 
His steps were most incomprehensible — 

I know not how I can describe in words 
Those tracks — he could have gone along the sands 
Neither upon his feet nor on his hands ; — ■ 

LIX. 

" He must have had some other stranger mode 

Of moving on : those vestiges immense. 
Far as I traced them on the sandy road, 

Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings : — ^but thence 
No mark nor track denoting where they trod 

The hard ground gave : — but, working at his fence, 
A mortal hedger saw him as he past 
To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. 

ix. 
" I found that in the dark he quietly 

Had sacrificed some cows, and before light 
Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly 

About the road — then, still as gloomy night, 
Had crept into his cradle, either eye 

Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. 
No eagle could have seen him as he lay 
Hid in his cavern fi'om the peering day. 

LXT. 

" I taxed him with the fact, when he averred 
Most solemnly that he did neither see 

Nor even had in any manner heard 

Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be ; 

Nor could he tell, though offered a reward, 
Not even who could tell of them to me." 

So speaking, Phoebus sate ; and Hermes then 

Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men : 

LXII. 

« Great Father, you know clearly beforehand 
That all which I shall say to you is sooth ; 

I am a most veracious person, and 
Totally unacquainted with imtruth. 

At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band 
Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath 

To my abode, seeking his heifers there, 

And saying that I must show him where they arc, 

LXIII. 

" Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. 

I know that every Apollonian limb 
Is clothed with speed and might and manliness. 

As a green bank with flowers — but imUke him 
I was born yesterday, and you may guess 

He well knew this when he indulged the whim 
Of bullying a poor little new-born thing 
That slept, and never thought of cow-driving. 

txiv. 
« Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine ? 

Believe me, dearest Father, such you are, 
This driving of the herds is none of mine ; 

Across my threshold did I wander ne'er. 
So may I thrive ! I reverence the divine 

Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care 
Even for this hard accuser — who must know 
I am as innocent as they or you. 

2H 



362 



TRANSLATIONS. 



"Iswearby these most gloriously-wrought portals — 
(It is, you will allow, an oath of might) 

Through which the multitude of the Immortals 
Pass and repass for ever, day and night, 

De\asing schemes for the affairs of mortals — 
That I am guiltless ; and I will requite 

Although mine enemy be great and strong. 

His cruel threat — do thou defend the young !" 

LXVI. 

So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont 

Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted: — 

And Jupiter, according to his wont. 

Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted 

Infant give such a plausible account, 
And every word a lie. But he remitted 

Judgment at present — and his exhortation 

Was, to compose the affair by arbitration. 

LXVII. 

And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden 
To go forth with a single purpose both, 

Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden : 
And Mercury with innocence and truth 

To lead the way, and show where he had hidden 
The mighty heifers. — Hermes, nothing loth, 

Obeyed the Jilgis-bearer's will — for he 

Is able to persuade all easily. 

LXVIII. 

These lovely children of Heaven's highest Lord 
Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide 

And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, 

Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied 

With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd 
Out of the stony cavern, Phoibus spied 

The hides of those the Httlc babe had slain, 

Stretched on the precipice above the plain. 

ixix. 

« How was it possible," then Phoebus said, 
« That you, a little child, born yesterday, 

A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed. 
Could two prodigious heifers ever flay 1 

E'en I myself may well hereafter dread 
Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, 

When you gi-ow strong and tall." — He spoke, and 

Stiff" withy bands the infant's wrists around, [bound 

LXX. 

He might as well have bound the oxen wild ; 

The withy bands, though starkly interknit. 
Fell at the feet of the immortal child. 

Loosened by some device of his quick wit. 
Phcebus perceived himself again beguiled, [pit, 

And stared — while Hermes sought some hole or 
Looking askance and winking fast as thought. 
Where he might hide himself, and not be caught. 

LXXI. 

Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill 
Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might 

Of winning music, to his mightier will ; 

His left hand held the lyre, and in his right 

The plectrum struck the chords — unconquerable 
Up from beneath his hand in circling flight 

The gathering music rose — and sweet as Love 

The penetrating notes did hve and move 



txxii. 

Within the heart of great Apollo — he 

Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. 

Close to his side stood harping fearlessly 
The unabashed boy ; and to the measure 

Of the sweet lyre, there followjed loud and free 
His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure 

Of his deep song, illustrating the birth 

Of the bright Gods and the dark desert Earth : 

IXXIII. 

And how to the Immortals every one 
A portion was assigned of all that is ; 

But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son 

Clothe in the light of his loud melodies; — 

And, as each God was born or had begun, 
He in their order due and fit degrees 

Sung of his birth and being — and did move 

Apollo to unutterable love. 

LXXIT. 

These words were winged with his swiff: delight: 
" You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you 

Deserve that fifty oxen should requite 

Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. 

Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight. 
One of your secrets I would gladly know. 

Whether the glorious power you now show forth 

Was folded up within you at your birth, 

IXXT. 

« Or whether mortal taught or God inspired 
The power of unpremeditated song 1 

Many divinest sounds have I admired 

The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; 

But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired. 
And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong 

Yet did I never hear except from thee, 

Oflfspring of May, impostor Mercury ! 

ixxvr. 

" What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, 
What exercise of subtlest art, has given [choose' 

Thy songs such power"! — for those who hear may 
From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, 

Dehght, and love, and sleep, sweet sleep, whose dews 
Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even: — 

And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo 

Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow : 

Lxxvir. 

" And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise 

Of song and evcrflowing poesy ; 
And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice 

Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly ; 
But never did my inmost soul rejoice 

In this dear work of youthful revelry, 
As now I wonder at thee, son of Jove ; 
Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. 

Lxxviri. 

" Now since thou hast, although so very small, 
Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear, — 

And let this cornel javchn, keen and tall. 

Witness between us what I promise bore, — • 

That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, 
Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear. 

And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee. 

And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee." 



HYMN TO MERCURY. 



563 



To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech : — 
" Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill : 

I envy thee no thing I know to teach 

Even this day : — for both in word and will 

I would be gentle with thee ; thou canst reach 
All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill 

Is highest in heaven among the sons of Jove, 

Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. 

LXXX. 

« The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee 

Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude 
Of his profuse exhaustless treasury ; 

By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood 
Of his far voice ; by thee the mystery 

Of all oracular fates, — and the dread mood 
Of the diviner is breathed up, even I — 
A child — perceive thy might and majesty — 

LXXXI. 

" Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit 
Can find or teach ; — yet smce thou wilt, come, 
take 

The lyre — be mine the glory giving it — 

Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake 

Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit 

Of tranced sound — and with fleet fingers make 

Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee. 

It can talk measured music eloquently. 

XXXXII. 

" Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, 

Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, 

A joy by night or day — for those endowed 
With art and wisdom who interrogate 

It teaches, babbling in delightful mood, 

All things which make the spirit most elate, 

Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play. 

Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. 

LXXXIII. 

" To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue, 
Though they should question most impetuously 

Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong — ■ 
Some senseless and impertinent reply. 

But thou who art as wise as thou art strong, 
Can compass all that thou desirest. I 

Present thee with this music-flowing shell, 

Knowing thou canst interrogate it well. 

LXXXIV. 

" And let us two henceforth together feed. 

On this green mountain slope and pastoral plain. 

The herds in litigation — they will breed 
Quickly enough to recompense our pain, 

If to the bulls and cows we take good heed ; — 
And thou, though somewhat overfond of gain, 

Grudge me not half the profit." — Having spoke. 

The shell he proiTered, and Apollo took. 

LXXXV. 

And gave him in return the glittering lash, 
InstaUing him as herdsman ; — from the look 

Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash ; 
And then Apollo with the plectrum strook 

The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash 
Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook 

The soul with sweetness, and like an adept 

His sweeter voice a just accordance kept. 



The herd went wandering o'er the divine mead. 
Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter 

Won their swift way up to the snowy head 
Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre 

Soothing their journey ; and their father dread 
Gathered them both into familiar 

Aflection sweet, — and then, and now, and ever, 

Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver, 

LXXXVII. 

To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded, 
Which skilfully he held and played thereon. 

He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded 
The echo of his pipings; every one 

Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded. 
While he conceived another piece of fijn, 

One of his old tricks — which the God of Day 

Perceiving, said : — " I fear thee, Son of May ;— • 

Lxxxnir. 

« I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, 

Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow; 

This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit. 
To teach all craft upon the earth below ; 

Thieves love and worship thee — it is thy merit 
To make all mortal business ebb and flow 

By roguery : — now, Hermes, if you dare 

By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear, 

IXXXIX. 

« That you will never rob me, you will do 
A thing extremely pleasing to my heart." 

Then Mercury sware by the Stygian dew, 
That he would never steal his bow or dart, 

Or lay his hands on what to him was due, 
Or ever would employ his powerful art 

Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore 

There was no God or man whom he loved more. 

xc. 

" And I will give thee as a good-will token 

The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness ; 
A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken. 

Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless ; 
And whatsoever by Jove's voice is spoken 

Of earthly or divine fi-om its recess. 
It like a loving soul to thee will speak, 
And more than this do thou forbear to seek : 

xci. 
'• For, dearest child, the divinations high 

Which thou requircst, 'tis unlawfial ever 
That thou, or any other dpity. 

Should understand — and vain were the en- 
deavour ; 
For they are hidden in Jove's mind, and I, 

In trust of them, have sworn that I would never 
Betray the counsels of Jove's inmost will 
To any God — the oath was terrible. 

xcir. 

" Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not 
To speak the fates by Jupiter designed ; 

But be it mine to tell their various lot 

To the unnumbered tribes of human kind. 

Let good to these and ill to those be wrought 
As I dispense^ — but he who comes consigned 

By voice and wings of perfect augury 

To my great shrine, shall find avail in me. 



364 



TRANSLATIONS. 



" Him will I not deceive, but will assist ; 

But he who comes relying on such birds 
As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist 

The purpose of the Gods with idle words, 
And deems their knowledge light he shall have mist 

His road — ^whilst I among my other hoards 
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May, 
I have another wondrous thing to say : 

XCIY. 

« There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who, 
Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, 

Their heads with flour snowed over white and new, 
Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings 

Its circhng skirts — from these I have learned true 
Vaticinations of remotest things. 

My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, 

They sit apart and feed on honeycombs. 

XCY. 

« They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow 
Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter 

With earnest willingness the truth they know ; 
But, if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter 



All plausible delusions; — these to you 

I give ; — if you inquire, they will not stutter ; 
Delight your own soul with them : — any man 
You would instruct may profit if he can. 

XCYI. 

" Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia's child-— 
O'er many a horse and toil enduring mule. 

O'er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild 

White-tusked boars, o'er all, by field or pool, 

Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild 
Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule— 

Thou dost alone the veil of death uplift — 

Thou givest not — ^yet this is a great gift." 

XCTII. 

Thus King Apollo loved the child of May 

In truth, and Jove covered them with love and joy. 

Hermes with Gods and men even from that day 
Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy. 

And little profit, going far astray 

Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful 
Boy, 

Of Jove and Maia sprung, — ^never by me. 

Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be. 



TO CASTOR AND POLLUX. 

Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of Jove, 
Whom the fair-ankled Leda mixed in love 
With mighty Saturn's heaven-obscuring Child. 
On Taygetus, that lofty mountain wild, 
Brought forth in joy, mild Pollux void of blame. 
And steel-subduing Castor, heirs of fame. 
These are the Powers who earthborn mortals 

save 
And ships, whose flight is swift along the wave. 
When wintry tempests o'er the savage sea 
Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly 
Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and vow. 
Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow. 
And sacrifice with snow-white lambs, the wind 
And the huge billow bursting close behind. 
Even then beneath the weltering waters bear 
The staggering ship — they suddenly appear. 
On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky. 
And lull the blasts in mute tranquilUty, 
And strew the waves on the white ocean's bed. 
Fair omen of the voyage ; from toil and dread. 
The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight. 
And plough the quiet sea in safe dehght. 



TO THE MOON. 

Daughters of Jove, whose voice rs melody, 
Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy ! 
Sing the wide-wingod Moon. Around the earth. 
From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth. 
Far Ught is scattered — boundless glory springs. 
Where'er she spreads her many-beaming wings 
The lampless air glows round her golden crown. 

But when the Moon divine from Heaven is gone 
Under the sea, her beams within abide. 
Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean's tide. 
Clothing her form in garments glittering far, 
And having yoked to her immortal car 
The beam-invested steeds, whose necks on high 
Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky 
A western Crescent, borne impetuously. 
Then is made full the circle of her light. 
And as she grows, her beams more bright and bright, 
Are poured from Heaven, where she is hovering 
A wonder and a sign to mortal men. [then, 

The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power 
Mingled in love and sleep — to whom she bore, 
Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare 
Among the Gods, whose lives eternal are. 

Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity, 
Fair-haired and favourable, thus with thee, 
My song beginning, by its music sweet 
Shall make immortal many a glorious feat 
Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well 
Which mmstrels, servants of the muses, tell. 



HYMNS OF HOMER. 



365 



TO THE SUN. 

Offsprixg of Jove, Calliope, once more 

To the bright Sun, thy hymn of music pour ; 

Whom to the child of star-clad Heaven and Earth 

Euryphaessa, large-eyed nymph, brought forth ; 

Euryphaessa, the famed sister fair. 

Of great Hyperion, who to him did bear 

A race of loveliest children ; the young Mom, 

Whose arms are like twin roses newly born, 

The fair-haired Moon, and the immortal Sun, 

Who, borne by heavenly steeds his race doth run 

Unconquerably, illuming the abodes 

Of mortal men and the eternal gods. 

Fiercely look forth his awe-inspiring eyes. 
Beneath his golden helmet, whence arise 
And are shot forth afar, clear beams of light ;' 
His countenance with radiant glory bright. 
Beneath his graceful locks far shines around. 
And the light vest with which his limbs are bound, 
Of woof ethereal, delicately twined 
Glows on the stream of the uplifting wind. 
His rapid steeds soon bear him to the west ; 
Where their steep flight his hands divine arrest, 
And the fleet car with yoke of gold, which he 
Sends from bright heaven beneath the shadovyy 



TO THE EARTH, MOTHER OF ALL. 



O u:!fivEnsAL mother, who dost keep 
From everlasting thy foundations deep, 
Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of thee ; 
All shapes that have their dwelling in the sea. 
All things that fly, or on the ground divine 
Live, move, and there are nourished — these are 

thine ; 
These from thy wealth thou dost sustain ; from thee 
Fair babes are bom, and fruits on every tree 
Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity • 



The life of mortal men beneath thy sway 
Is held ; thy power both gives and takes away ! 
Happy are they whom thy mild favours nourish,' 
All things unstinted round them grow and flourish. 
For them, endures the life sustaining field 
Its load of harvest, and their cattle yield 
Large increase, and their house with wealth is filled. 
Such honoured dwell in cities fair and free, 
The homes of lovely women, prosperously ; 
Their sons exult in youth's new budding gladness, 
And their fresh daughters free from care or sadness, 
With bloom-inwoven dance and happy song. 
On the soft flowers the meadow-grass among. 
Leap round them sporting — such delights by thee 
Are given, rich Power, revered Divinity. 

Mother of gods, thou wife of starry Heaven, 
Farewell ! be thou propitious, and be given 
A happy life for this brief melody, 
Nor thou nor other songs shall unremembered be. 



TO MINERVA. 

I siifG the glorious Power with azure eyes, 
Athenian Pallas ! tameless, chaste, and wise, 
Trilogenia, town-preserving maid. 
Revered and mighty ; from his awful head 
Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike armour drest. 
Golden, all radiant ! wonder strange possessed 
The everlasting Gods that shape to see. 
Shaking a javelin keen, impetuously 
Rush from the crest Of ^gis-bearing Jove ; 
Fearfully Heaven was shaken, and did move 
Beneath the might of the Cerulean-eyed ; 
Earth dreadfully resounded, far and wide, 
And Ufted from its depths, the sea swelled high 
In purple billows, the tide suddenly 
Stood still, and great Hyperion's son long time 
Checked his swift steeds, till where she stood sublime, 
Pallas from her immortal shoulders threw 
The arms divine ; wise Jove rejoiced to view. 
Child of the J3gis-bearer, hail to thee. 
Nor thine nor others' praise shall unremembered be. 



2h2 



366 



TRANSLATIONS. 



THE CYCLOPS: 
^ Satiric SJrama. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES. 



SiLENUS. 

Choeus of Satyrs. 



Ultsses. 
The Ciclops. 



O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now 

And ere these limbs were overworn with age, 

Have I endured for thee ! First, when thou fled'st 

The mountain-nymphs who nurst thee, driven afar 

By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee ; 

Then in the battle of the sons of Earth, 

When I stood foot by foot close to thy side, 

No unpropilious fellow combatant, 

And, driving through his shield my winged spear, 

Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now. 

Is it a dream of which I speak to thee ? 

By Jove it is not, for you have the tropliies ! 

And now I suffer more than all before. 

For, when I heard that Juno had devised 

A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea 

With all my children quaint in search of you. 

And I myself stood on the beaked prow 

And fixed the naked mast ; and all my boys, 

Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain 

Made white with foam the green and purple sea, — 

And so we sought you, king. We were sailing 

Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, 

And drove us to this wild JEtnean rock; 

The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, 

The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit, 

On this wild shore, their solitary caves ; 

And one of these, named Polypherae, has caught us 

To be his slaves ; and so, for all delight 

Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, 

We keep this lawless giant's wandermg flocks. 

My sons indeed, on far decli'-ities, 

Young things themselves, tend on the youngling 

But I remain to fill the water casks, [sheep. 

Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering] 

Some impious and abominable meal 

To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it ! 

And now I must scrape up the littered floor 

With this great iron rake, so to receive 

My absent master and his evening sheep 

In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see 

My children tending the flocks hitherward. 

Ha ! what is this 1 are your Sicinnian measures 



Even now the same as when with dance and song 
You brought young Bacchus to Athasa's halls 1 



CHORUS OF SATYRS. 
STROPHE. 

Where has he of race divine 
Wandered in the winding rocks 1 
Here the air is calm and fine 
For the father of the flocks ; — 
Here the grass is soft and sweet, 
And the river-eddies meet 
In the trough beside the cave, 
Bright as in their fountain wave.— • 
Neither here, nor on the dew 
Of the lawny uplands feeding ? 
Oh, you come ! — a stone at you 
Will I throw to mend your breeding ; 
Get along you horned thing 
Wild, seditious, rambling ! 

EPODE.*, 

An lacchic melody 

To the golden Aphrodite 

Will I lift, as erst did I 

Seeking her and her delight 

With the Maenads, whose white feet 

To the music glance and fleet. 

Bacchus, beloved, where, 

Shaking wide thy yellow hair, 

Wanderest thou alone, afar 1 

To the one-eyed Cyclops, we. 

Who by right thy servants are. 

Minister in misery. 

In these wretched goat-skins clad, 

Far from thy delights and thee. 

SILESUS. 

Be silent, sons ; command the slaves to drive 
The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave. 

CHORUS. 

Go ! But what needs this serious haste, O father ! 
* The Antistrophe is omitted. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



367 



SIIENUS. 

I see a Grecian vessel on the coast, 

And thence the rowers, with some general. 

Approaching to this cave. About their necks 

Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food, 

And water-flasks. — 'O miserable strangers ! 

Whence come they, that they know not what and 

My master is, approaching in ill hour [who 

The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, 

And the Cyclopian jawbone, man-destroying ] 

Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear. 

Whence comuig, they arrive the ^tnean hill. 

UlTSSES. 

Friends, can you show me some clear water spring, 
The remedy of our thirst ] Will any one 
Furnish with food seamen in want of it ? 
Ha ! what is this 1 We seem to be arrived 
At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe 
This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. 
First let me greet the elder. — Hail ! 

SItENUS. 

Hail thou, 

Stranger ! Tell thy country and thy race. 

ULTSSES. 

The Ithacan Ulysses and the king 
Of Cephalonia. 

SILEJfUS. 

Oh ! I know the man, 
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. 

ULTSSES. 

1 am the same, but do not rail upon me. — 

SILENUS. 

Whence sailing do you come to Sicily 1 

ULTSSES. 

From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. 

SILENUS. 

How touched you not at your paternal shore : 

ULTSSES. 

The strength of tempests bore me here by force. 

SILEXUS. 

The selfsame accident occurred to me. 

ULTSSES. 

Were you then driven here by stress ot weather 1 

SILEXUS. 

Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus. 

ULTSSES. 

What land is this, and who inhabit it 1 — 

SILENUS. 

^tna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. 

ULTSSES. 

And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns'? 

SILENUS. 

There are not. — These lone rocks are bare of men. 

ULTSSES. 

And who possess the land 1 the race of beasts 1 



SILENUS. 

Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. 

ULTSSES. 

Obeying whom ? Or is the state popular 1 

SILENUS. 

Shepherds : no one obey 3 any in aught. 

ULTSSES. 

How live they 1 do they sow the corn of Ceres 1 

SILENUS. 

On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. 

ULTSSES. 

Have they the Bromian drink from the vine's stream 1 

SILENUS. 

Ah ! no ; they live in an ungracious land. 

ULTSSES. 

And are they just to strangers ? — hospitable 1 

SILENUS. 

They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings, 
Is his own flesh. 

ULTSSES. 

What ! do they eat man's flesh ? 

SILENUS. 

No one comes here who is not eaten up. 

ULTSSES. 

The Cyclops now — where is he 1 Not at home 1 

SILENUS. 

Absent on ^tna, hunting with his dogs. 

ULTSSES. 

Know'st thou what thou must do to aid us hence 1 

SILESUS. 

I know not : we will help you all we can. 

ULTSSES. 

Provide us food, of which we are in want. 

SILENUS. 

Here is not any thing, as I said, but meat. 

ULTSSES. 

But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. 

SILENUS. 

Cow's millc there is, and store of curdled cheese. 

ULTSSES. 

Bring out : — I would sell all before I bargain. 

SILENUS. 

But how much gold wdll you engage to give 1 

ULTSSES. 

I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. 

SILENUS. 

Ojoy! 
'Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine. 

ULTSSES. 

Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. 

SILENUS. 

Whom I have nursed a baby in my arras. 



368 TRANSLATIONS. 


TTLTSSES. 


SILENUS. 


The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge. 


• » # • » 




The wanton wretch ! She was bewitched to see 


SILENUS. 


The many-coloured anklets and the chain 


Have you it now 1 — or is it in the ship ] 


Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris, 


ULTSSES. 


And SO she left that good man Menelaus. 


Old man, this skin contains it, which you see. 


There should be no more women in the world 




But such as are reserved for me alone. — 


SILEXUS. 


See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses ; 


Why this would hardly be a mouthful for me. 


Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk ; 


TTLTSSES. 


Take them ; depart with what good speed ye may ; 


Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. 


First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew 


Of joy-iiisphing grapes. 


SILENUS. 




You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. 


ULTSSES. 

Ah me ! Alas ! 


ULTSSES. 


What shall we do 1 the Cyclops is at hand ! 


Would you first taste of the unmingled wine 1 


Old man, we perish ! whither can we fly 1 


SILEXUS. 


SILENUS. 


'Tis just — tasting invites the purchaser. 


Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock. 


ULTSSES. 


ULTSSES. 


Here is the cup, together with the skin. 


'Twere perilous to fly into the net 


SILEXUS. 


SILENUS. 


Pour : that the draught may fillip my remembrance. 


The cavern has recesses numberless ; 




Hide yourselves quick. 


rLXSSES. 




See! 


ULTSSES. 


SILENUS. 


That will I never do ! 


Papajapsex ! what a sweet smell it has ! 


The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced 


If I should fly one man. How many times 


ULYSSES. 


Have I withstood with shield immovable. 


You see it then ? — • 


Ten thousand Phrygians ! — If I needs must die, 


SILENUS. 


Yet will I die with glory ; — If I Uve, 


By Jove, no ! but I smell it. 


The praise which I have gained will yet remain. 




SILENUS. 


ULTSSES. 




Taste, that you may not praise it in words only. 


What, ho ! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance ! 


SILENUS. 


The Cyclops, Silentis, Ulysses ; Chorus. 


Babai ! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance ! 
Joy ! joy ! 

ULTSSES. 

Did it flow sweetly down your throat 1 


CYCLOPS. 


What is this tumult 1 Bacchus is not here. 


Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. 

How are my young lambs in the cavern ? Milking 


SILENUS. 


Then- dams, or playing by their sides 1 And is 


So that it tingled to my very nails. 


The new cheese pressed into the bullmsh baskets 1 




Speak ! I'll beat some of you till you rain tears — ■ 


ULTSSES. 


Look up, not downwards, when I speak to you. 


And in addition I will give you gold. 






SILENUS. 


SILENUS. 


See ! I now gape at Jupiter himself, 


Let gold alone ! only unlock the cask. 


I stare upon Orion and the stars. 


ULTSSES. 


CTCLOPS. 


Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat. 


Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid 1 




SILENUS. 


SILENUS. 




That will I do, despising any master. 


All ready, if your throat is ready too. 


Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give 


CYCLOPS. 


All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains. 


Are the bowls full of milk besides 1 


* * * * • 


SILENUS. 


CHORUS. 


O'erbrimming ; 


Ye have taken Troy, and laid your hands on Helenl 


So you may drink a tunful if you will. 


ULTSSES. 


CTCLOPS. 


And utterly destroyed the race of Priam. 


Is it ewe's milk, or cows's milk, or both mixed 1 — 



THE CYCLOPS. 



369 



SILENUS. 

Both, either ; only pray don't swallow me. 

CTCLOPS. 

By no means 

***** 

What is this crowd I see beside the stalls'? 
Ontlaws or thieves ] for near my cavern home 
T see my young lambs coupled two by two 
With willow bands ; mixed with my cheeses lie 
Their implements ; and this old fellow here 
Has his bald head broken with the stripes. 

SILENUS.- 

Ah me! 
I have been beaten till I burn with fever. 

CYCLOPS. 

By whom ? Who laid his fist upon your head 1 

SILESUS. 

Those men, because I would not suffe' them 
To steal your goods. 



Do not the rascals know 
I am a God, sprung from the race of heaven 1 



I told them so, but they bore off your things, 
And ate the cheese in spite of all I said, 
And carried out the lambs — and said, moreover, 
They'd pin you down with a three-cubit collar, 
And pull j'our vitals out through your one eye. 
Torture your back with stripes ; then, binding you, 
Throw you as ballast into the ship's hold, 
And then deliver you, a slave, to move 
Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. 



In truth 1 Nay, haste, and place in order quickly 

The cooking knives, and heap upon the hearth. 

And kindle it, a great fagot of wood. — ■ 

As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill 

My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, 

Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling cauldron. 

I am quite sick of the wild mountain game ; 

Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, 

And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. 



Nay, master, something new is very pleasant 

After one thing for ever, and of late 

Very few strangers have approached our cave. 



Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side. 
We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship 
Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here 
This old Silenus gave us in exchange 
These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank, 
And all by mutual compact, without force. 
There is no word of truth in what he says, 
For slily he was selling all your store. 
47 



1 1 May you perish, wretch—. 

ULYSSES. 

If I speak false ! 

SIEEJfUS. 

Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee, 
By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, 
Calypso and the glaucous ocean Nymphs, 
The sacred waves and all the race of fishes — 
Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master, 
My darling httle Cyclops, that I never 
Gave any of your stores to these false strangers.^ 
If I speak false may those whom most I love, 
My children, perish wretchedly ! 



CHORUS. 



There stop ! 



1 nere stop ; 
I saw him giving these things to the strangers. 
If I speak false, then may my father perish, 
But do not thou wrong hospitality. 

CYCLOPS. 

You lie ! I swear that he is juster far 
Than Rhadamanthus — I trust more in him. 
But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers 1 
Who are you 1 and what city nourished ye ] 

ULYSSES. 

Our race is Ithacan. — Having destroyed 
The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea 
Have driven us on thy land, Polypheme. 

CYCLOPS. 

What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil 
Of the false Helen, near Scamander's stream ? 

ULYSSES. 

The same, having endured a woful toil. 

CYCLOPS. 

O basest expedition ! Sailed ye not 

From Greece to Phrygia for one woman's sake 1 

ULYSSES. 

'Twas the God's work — no mortal was in fault. 
But, O great offspring of the Ocean King ! 
We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom. 
That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee, 
And place no impious food within thy jaws. 
For in the depths of Greece we have upreared 
Temples to thy great father, which are all 
His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus 
Remains inviolate, and each dim recess 
Scooped high on the Malean promontory. 
And aery Sunium's silver-veined crag. 
Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever. 
The Gerastian asylums, and whate'er 
Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept 
From Phrygian contumely ; and in which 
You have a common care, for you inhabit 
The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots 
Of ^^tna and its crags, spotted with fire. 
Turn then to converse under human laws ; 
Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and pro\'ide 
Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts ; 
Nor, fixing upon oxen-piercing spits 
Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. 



370 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Priam's wide land has widowed Greece enough ; 
And weapon-winged murder heaped together 
Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, 
And ancient women and gray fathers wail 
Their cliildless age ; — if you should roast the rest, 
And 'tis a bitter feast that you prepare, 
Where then would any turn 7 Yet be persuaded ; 
Forego the lust of your jawbone ; prefer 
Pious humanity to wicked will ; 
Many have bought too dear their evil joys. 

SILENUS. 

Let me advise you ; do not spare a morsel 
Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue 
You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS. 

Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise man's God ; 

All other things are a pretence and boast. 

What are my father's ocean promontories, 

The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me ? 

Stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove's thunderbolt, 

I know not that his strength is more than mine. 

As to the rest I care not. — When he pours 

Rain from above, I have a close paviUon 

Under this rock, in which I lie supine, 

Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, 

And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously 

Emulating the thunder of high heaven. 

And when the Tiiracian wind pours down the snow, 

I wrap my body in the skins of beasts, 

Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. 

The earth by force, whether it will or no, 

Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds, 

Which, to what other God but to myself 

And this great belly, first of deities. 

Should I be bound to sacrifice ] I well know 

The wise man's only Jupiter is this, 

To eat and drink during his little day, 

And give himself no care. And as for those 

Who complicate with laws the hfe of man, 

I freely give them tears for their reward. 

I will not cheat my soul of its delight. 

Or hesitate in dining upon you : — 

And that I may be quit of all demands, 

These are my hospitable gifts ; — fierce fire 

And yon ancestral cauldron, which o'erbubbling 

Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. 

Creep in ! — 

ULTSSES. 

Ay, ay ! I have escaped the Trojan toils, 
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall 
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. 
O Pallas, mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove, 
Now, now, assist me ! Mightier toils than Troy 
Are these ; — I totter on the chasms of peril ; — 
And thou who inhabitest the thrones 
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, 
Upon this outrage of thy deity. 
Otherwise be considered as no God. 

CHORUS (alone.') 

For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide 
The ravine is ready on every side ; 



The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done, 
There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat 

from the coal. 
You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun, 
A hairy goat's skin contains the whole. 
Let me but escape, and feny me o'er 
The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. 

The Cyclops ^5]tnean is cruel and bold. 
He murders the strangers 
That sit on his hearth, 
And dreads no avengers 
To rise from the earth. 
He roasts the men before they are cold, 
He snatches them broiling from the coal, 
And from the cauldron pulls them whole, 
And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone 
With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. 

Farewell, foul pavilion ! 
Farewell, rites of dread I 

The Cyclops vermilion. 
With slaughter uncloying, 

Now feasts on the dead, 
In the flesh of strangers joying ! 

TJLTSSES. 

O Jupiter ! I saw within the cave 

Horrible things ; deeds to be feigned in words, 

But not believed as being done. 

CHORUS. 

What ! sawest thou the impious Polypheme 
Feasting upon your loved companions now 1 

ULYSSES. 

Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd. 
He grasped them in his hands. — ■ 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy man ! 

ULYSSES. 

Soon as we came into this craggy place. 

Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth 

The knotty limbs of an enormous oak. 

Three wagon-loads at least, and then he strewed 

Upon the ground, beside the red fire light. 

His couch of pine leaves; and he milked the cows. 

And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl 

Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much 

As would contain four amphorae, and bound it 

With ivy wreaths ; then placed upon the fire 

A brazen pot to boil, and make red hot 

The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle, 

But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws 

Of axes for Etna's slaughterings.* 

And when this God-abandoned cook of hell 

Has made all ready, he seized two of us, 

And killed them in a kind of measured manner ; 

For he flung one against the brazen rivets 

Of the huge cauldron, and seized the other 

By the fool's tendon, and knocked out his brains 

Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone : 

Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking knife. 

And put him down to roast. The other's limbs 

He chopped into the cauldron to be boiled. 

And I, with tears raining from my eyes, 

* I confess I do not understand this. — JVote of the .Author. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



371 



Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him ; 

The rest, in the recesses of the cave, 

Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear. 

When he was filled with my companions' flesh, 

He threw himself upon the ground, and sent 

A loathsome exhalation from his maw. 

Then a divine thought came to me. I filled 

The cup of Maron, and I offered him 

To taste, and said : — " Child of the Ocean-God, 

Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce, 

The exultation and the joy of Bacchus." 

He, satiated with his unnatural food. 

Received it, and at one draught drank it off 

And taking my hand, praised me : — *' Thou hast 

given 
A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest." 
And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled 
Another cup, well knowing that the wine 
Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge. 
And the charm fascinated him, and I 
Plied him cup after cup, until the drink 
Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud 
In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen 
A hideous discord — and the cavern rung. 
I have stolen out, so that if you will 
You may achieve my safety and your own. 
But say, do you desire, or not, to fly 
This uncompanionable man, and dwell. 
As was your wont, among the Grecian nymphs, 
Within the fanes of your beloved God 1 
Your father there within agrees to it, 
But he is weak and overcome with wine, 
And caught as if with birdlime by the cup. 
He claps his wings and crows in doating joy. 
You who are young escape with me, and find 
Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he 
To this rude Cyclops. 

CHORUS. 

O my dearest friend, 
That I could see that day, and leave for ever 
The impious Cyclops. 



Listen then what a punishment I have 
For this fell monster, how secure a flight 
From your hard servitude. 



O sweeter far 
Than is the music of an Asian lyre 
,Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed. 

ULTSSES. 

Delighted vrith the Bacchic drink, he goes 
To call his brother Cyclops — who inhabit 
A village upon ^tna not far off. 



I understand : catching him when alone, 
You think by some measure to despatch him, 
Or thrust him from the precipice. 

ULTSSES. 

Ono; 

Nothing of that kind ; my device is subtle. 



How then 1 



CHORUS. 

I heard of old that thou wert wise. 



I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying 

It were unwise to give the Cyclopses 

This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone 

Would make life sweeter for a longer time. 

When vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps, 

There is a trunk of olive-wood within. 

Whose point, having made sharp with this good 

sword, 
I will conceal in fire, and when I see 
It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, 
Within the socket of the Cyclops' eye. 
And melt it out with fire^ — as when a man 
Turns by its handle a great auger round. 
Fitting the fi-amework of a ship with beams, 
So will I in the Cyclops' fiery eye 
Turn round the brand, and dry the pupil up. 

CHORUS. 

Joy ! I am mad with joy at your device. 

ULTSSES. 

And then with you, my friends, and the old man, 
We'll load the hollow depth of our black ship. 
And row with double strokes from this dread 
shore. 

CHORUS. 

May I, as in libations to a God, 

Share in the blinding him with the red brand ! 

I would have some communion in his death. 

ULYSSES. 

Doubtless ; the brand is a great brand to hold. 

CHORUS. 

Oh ! I would lift a hundred wagon-loads. 

If like a wasp's nest I could scoop the eye out 

Of the detested Cyclops. 

ULTSSES. 

Silence now ! 
Ye know the close device — and when I call, 
Look ye obey the masters of the craft. 
I will not save myself and leave behind 
My comrades in the cave : I might escape, 
Having got clear fi-om that obscure recess. 
But 'twere unjust to leave in jeopardy 
The dear companions who sailed here with mc. 

CHORUS. 

Come ! who is first, that with his hand 
Will urge down the burning brand 
Through the lids, and quench and pierce 
The Cyclops' eye so fiery fierce 1 

sEMicHORus I. Song tvithin. 
Listen ! hstcn ! he is coming, 
A most hideous discord humming. 
Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, 
Far along his rocky dwelling; 
Let Us with some comic spell 
Teach the yet unteachable. 
By all means he must be blinded. 
If my counsel be but mmded. 



373 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SEMICHOnUS II. 

Happy those made odorous 

With the dew which sweet grapes weep, 

To the village hastening thus, 

Seek the vines that soothe to sleep, 

Having first embraced thy friend. 

There in luxury without end, 

With the strings of yellow hair. 

Of thy voluptuous leman fair, 

Shalt sit playing on a bed ! — • 

Speak, what door is opened ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'm foil of wine, 

Heavy with the joy divine. 

With the young feast oversated. 

Like a merchant's vessel freighted 

To the water's edge, my crop 

Is laden to the gullet's top. 

The fresh meadow grass of spring 

Tempts me forth, thus wandering 

To my brothers on the mountains, 

Who shall share the wine's sweet fountains. 

Bring the cask, stranger, bring ! 

CHonus. 
One with eyes the fairest 
Cometh from his dwelling ; 
Some one loves thee, rarest. 
Bright beyond my telling. 
In thy grace thou shinest 
Like some nymph divinest, 
In her caverns dewy ; — 
All delights pursue thee, 
Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing. 
Shall thy head be wreathing. 

TTLTSSES. 

Listen, Cyclops, for I am well skilled 
In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. 

CTCLOPS. 

What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted 1 

ULTSSES. 

The greatest among men for joy of life. 

CYCLOPS. 

I gulpt him down with very great deUght. 

ULYSSES. 

Tlris is a god who never injures men. 

CYCLOPS. 

How does the God like living in a skin ? 

ULYSSES. 

He is content wherever he is put. 

CYCLOPS. 

Gods should not have their body in a skin. 

ULYSSES. 

If he give joy, what is liis skin to you 1 

CYCLOPS. 

I hate the skin, but love the wine within. 

ULYSSES. 

Stay here ; now drink, and make your spirit glad. 



CYCLOPS. 

Should I not share this liquor with my brothers 1 

ULYSSES. 

Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so. 

CYCLOPS. 

I were more useful, giving to my friends. 

ULYSSES. 

But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows. 

CYCLOPS. 

When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.— 

ULYSSES. 

A drunken man is better within doors. 

CYCLOPS. 

He is a fool, who drinkmg loves not mirth. 

ULYSSES. 

But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home. 

CYCLOPS. 

What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay? 

SILEXUS. 

Stay — for what need have you of pot companions 1 

CYCLOPS. 

Indeed this place is closely carpeted 
With flowers and grass. 

SILENUS. 

And in the sun-warm noon 

'Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, 

Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. 

CYCLOPS. 

What do you put the cup behind me for 1 

SILEJfUS. 

That no one here may touch it. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thievish one! 
You want to drink : — ^liere place it in the midst. 
And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called ! 

ULYSSES. 

My name is Nobody. What favour now 
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands ] 

CYCLOPS. 

I'll feast on you the last of your companions. 

ULYSSES. 

You grant your guest a fair reward, Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha ! what is this 1 Stealing the wine, you rogue ? 

SILENUS. 

It was this stranger Idssing me, because 
I looked so beautiful. 

CYCLOPS. 

You shall repent 
For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. 

SILENUS. 

By Jupiter ! you said that I am fair. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



373 



CTCLOPS. 

Pour out, and only give me the cup full. 

SILENTJS. 

How is it mixed "? Let me observe. 



Give it me so. 



Curse you! 



SILE^"TJS. 

Not till I see you wear 
That coronal, and taste the cup to you, 

CYCLOPS. 

Thou v?ily traitor ! 

SILEIfUS. 

But the wine is sweet. 
Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. 

CYCLOPS. 

See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. 

SILENUS. 

Now put your elbow right, and drink again, 
As you see me drink — * * * 

CYCLOPS. 

How now? 

SILEKUS. 

Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Guest, take it ; — ^you pour out the wine for me. 

ULYSSES. 

The wine is well accustomed to my hand. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour out the wine ! 

ULYSSES. 

I pour ; only be silent. 

ITYCLOPS. 

Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. 

ULYSSES. 

Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. 

Oh, that the drinker died with his own draught ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Papai ! the vine must be a sapient plant. 

ULYSSES. 

If you drink much after a mighty feast. 
Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well ; 
If you leave aught Bacchus will dry you up. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ho ! ho ! I can scarce rise. What pure delight ! 
The heavens and earth appear to whirl about 
Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove 
And the clear congregation of the Gods. 
Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss, 
I would not, for the loveliest of them all 
I would not leave tliis Ganymede. 



I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. 



Polypheme, 



CYCLOPS. 

By Jove you are ; I bore you off from Dardanus. 
Ulysses and the Chorus. 

ULYSSES. 

Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race, 

This man within is folded up in sleep. 

And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw ; 

The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke, 

No preparation needs, but to burn out 

The monster's eye ; — but bear yourselves hke men. 

CHORUS. 

We will have courage like the adamant rock. 
All things are ready for you here ; go in. 
Before our father shall perceive the noise. 

ULYSSES. 

Vulcan, ^tnean king ! burn out with fire 

The shining eye of tliis thy neighbouring monster ! 

And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy night. 

Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast. 

And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades, 

Returning from their famous Trojan toils. 

To perish by this man, who cares not either 

For God or mortal ; or I needs must think 

That Chance is a supreme divinity. 

And things divine are subject to her power. 

CHORUS. 

Soon a crab the throat will seize 
Of him who feeds upon his guest, 

Fire will burn his lamplike eyes 
In revenge of such a feast ! 

A great oak stump low is lying 

In the ashes yet undying. 

Come, Maron, come ! 
Raging let him fix the doom, 
Let him tear the eyelid up. 
Of the Cyclops — that his cup 

May be evil ! 
Oh, I long to dance and revel 
With sweet Bromian, long desired. 
In loved ivy wreaths attired ; 

Leaving this abandoned home — 

Will the moment ever come 1 

ULYSSES. 

Be silent, ye wild things ! Nay, hold your peace, 
And keep your lips quite close ; dare not to breathe. 
Or spit, or e'en -wink, lest ye wake the monster, 
Until his eye be tortured out with fire. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air. 

ULYSSES. 

Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake 
Within — it is delightfully red hot. 

CHORUS. 

You then command who first should seize the stake 
To burn the Cyclops' eye, that all may share 
In the great enterprise. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We are too few ; 
We cannot at this distance from the door 
Thrust fire into his eye. 



374 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SEMICHORUS II. 

And we just now 
Have become lame ; cannot move hand nor foot. 

CHOIIUS. 

The same thing has occured to us ; — our ankles 
Are sprained with standing here, I know not how. 

ULTSSES. 

What, sprained with standing still 1 
CHonus. 

And there is dust 
Or ashes ui our eyes, I knew not whence. 

ULTSSES. 

Cowardly dogs ! ye will not aid me, then 1 

CHORUS. 

With pitying my own back and my backbone, 

And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out. 

This cowardice comes of itself — but stay, 

I know a famous Orphic incantation 

To make the brand stick of its own accord 

Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. 

ULTSSES. 

Of old I knew ye thus by nature ; now 

I know ye better. — I will use the aid 

Of my own comrades — yet though weak of hand 

Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken 

The courage of my friends with your blithe words. 

cnonus. 

This I will do with peril of my life, 

And Wind you with my exhortations, Cyclops. 

Hasten and thrust, 
And parch up to dust, 
The eye of the beast. 
Who feeds on his guest. 
Burn and blind 
The ^tnean hind ! 
Scoop and draw, 
But beware lest he claw 
Your limbs near his maw. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah me ! my eyesight is parched up to cinders. 

CHoncs. 
What a sweet peean ! sing me that again ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah me ! indeed, what wo has fallen upon me ! 
But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee 
Out of this rock ; I, standing at the outlet, 
Will bar the way, and catch you as you pass. 

CHORUS. 

What are you roaring out, Cyclops 1 

CYCLOPS. 

I perish ! 

CHORUS. 

For you are wicked. 

CYCLOPS. 

And besides miserable. 

CHORUS. 

What, did you fall into the fire when drunk 7 



CYCLOPS. 

'Twas Nobody destroyed me. 



Can be to blame. 



Who blinded me. 



Why then no one 

CYCLOPS. 

I say 'twas Nobody 

CHORUS. 

Why then, you are not blind ! 



CYCLOPS. 

I wish you were as blind as I am. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, 
It cannot be that no one made you blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

You jeer me ; where, I ask, is Nobody 1 

CHORUS. 

No where, O Cyclops * » # 

CYCLOPS. 

It was that stranger ruined me : — the wretch 
First gave me wine, and then burnt out my eye, 
For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. 
Have they escaped, or are they yet within ! 

CHORUS. 

They stand under the darkness of the rock, 
And cling to it. 

CYCLOPS. 

At my right hand or left! 

CHORUS. 

Close on your right. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where ? 



Near the rock itself. 



You have them. 



CYCLOPS. 

Oh, misfortune on misfortnne ! 
I've cracked my skull. 

CHORUS. 

Now they escape you there. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not there, although you say so. 

CHORUS. 

Not on that side. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where then 1 

CHORUS. 

They creep about you on your left. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah ! I am mocked ! They jeer me in my ills. 

CHORUS. 

Not there ! he is a little there beyond you. 



THE CYCLOPS. 



375 



CYCLOPS. 

Detested wretch ! where art thou 1 



Far from you 
I keep with care this body of Ulysses. 

CYCLOIDS. 

What do you say ? You proffer a new name. 

UlTSSES. 

My father named me so ; and I have taken 

A full revenge for your unnatural feast ; 

I should have done ill to have burned dovni Troy, 

And not revenged the murder of my comrades. 

CTCIOPS. 

Ai ! ai ! the ancient oracle is accomplished ; 
It said that I should have my eyesight bhnded 



By you coming from Troy, yet it foretold 
That you should pay the penalty for this 
By wandering long over the homeless sea. 



I bid thee weep — consider what I say, 
I go towards the shore to drive my ship 
To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave. 



Not so, if whelming you with this huge stone 
I can crush you and all your men together ; 
I will descend upon the shore, though blind, 
Groping my way adown the steep ravine. 



And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now. 
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. 



376 



TRANSLATIONS. 



EPIGRAMS. 



SPIRIT OF PLATO; 

FROM THE GREEK. 

Eagle ! why soarest thou above that tomb 1 
To what subhme and starry-paven home 

rioatest thou 1 
I am the image of swift Plato's spirit, 
Ascending heaven — 'Athens does inherit 

His corpse below. 



FROM THE GREEK. 

A MAN who was about to hang himself, 
Finding a purse, then threw away his rope ; 
The owner coming to reclaim his pelf. 
The halter found and used it. So is Hope 
Changed for Despair — one laid upon the shelf, 
We take the other. Under heaven's high cope 
Fortune is God — all you endure and do 
Depends on circumstance as much as you. 



TO STELLA. 



FROM PLATO. 



Tuou wert the morning star among the living, 
Ere thy fair light had fled ; — 

Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving 
New splendour to the dead. 



FROM PLATO. 



Kissing Helena, together 
With my kiss, my soul beside it 
Came to my lips, and there I kept it, — 
For the poor thing had wandered thither, 
To follow where the kiss should guide it, 
O, cruel I, to intercept it ! 



SONNETS FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS. 



Taf aXa rav y\avKav orav uvs^oj drpijia fiaXXrj, — k. t. X. 



I. 

When winds that move not its calm surface sweep 
The azure sea, I love the land no more : 
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep 
Tempt my unquiet mind. — But when the roar 
Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam 
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst, 
I turn from the drear aspect to the home 
Of earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed. 
When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody ; 
Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea. 
Whose prey, the wandering fish, an evil lot 
Has chosen. — But I my languid Hmbs will fling 
Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring 
Moves the calm spirit but disturbs it not. 



n. 

Pan loved his neighbour Echo — ^but that child 
Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr leaping; 
The Satyr loved with wasting madness wild 
The bright nymph Lyda — and so the tluee went 

weeping. 
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr ; 
The Satyr, Lyda — and thus love consumed 

them. — 
And thus to each — ^which was a woful matter — 
To bear what they mflicted, justice doomed them; 
For, inasmuch as each might hate the lover. 
Each, loving, so was hated. — Ye that love not 
Be warned — in thought turn this example over, 
That, when ye love, the like return ye prove not. 



SONNET FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE. 



DANTE ALIGHIEHI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 

GuiDO, I would that Lappo, thou, and I, 
Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend 
A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly 
With winds at will where'er our thoughts might 
So that no change, nor any evil chance, [wend, 
Should mar our joyous voyage ; but it might be, 



That even satiety should still enhance 
Between our hearts their strict community ; 
And that the bounteous wizard then would place 
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love. 
Companions of our wandering, and would gi-ace 
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove, 
Our time, and each were as content and free 
As I believe that thou and I should be. 



SCENES FROM CALDERON. 



377 



SCENES 



THE "MAGICO PRODIGIOSO" OF CALDERON, 



Cyprian as a Shident ; Clakin and Moscorr as poor 
Scholars, with books, 

CTPRIAX. 

In' the sweet solitude of this calm place, 

This intricate wild wilderness of trees 

And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, 

Leave me ; the books you brought out of the house 

To me are ever best society. 

And whilst with glorious festival and song 

Antioch now celebrates the consecration 

Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 

And bears his image in loud jubilee 

To its new shrine, I would consume what still 

Lives of the dying da}', in studious thought, 

Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my friends. 

Go and enjoy the festival ; it will 

Be worth the labour, and return for me 

When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, 

Which among dim gray clouds on the horizon 

Dance like white plumes upon a hearse ; — and here 

I shall expect you. 

MOSCOX. 

I cannot bring my mind, 
Great as my haste to see the festival 
Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without 
Just saying some three or four hundred words. 
How is it possible that on a day 
Of such festivity, you can bring your mind 
To come forth to a solitary country 
With three or four old books, and turn your back 
On all this mirth ] 

ClARIIf. 

My master's in the right ; 
There is not any thing more tiresome 
Than a procession day, with troops of men, 
And dances, and all that. 

MOSCOX. 

From first to last, 
Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer ; 
You praise not what you feel, but what he does ; — 
Toadeater ! 

CLARIN. 

You lie — under a mistake — 
For this is the most civil sort of lie 
That can be given to a man's face. I now 
Say what I think. 

48 



Enough, you foolish fellows. 

Puffed up with your own doting ignorance. 

You always take the two sides of one question. 

Now go, and as I said, return for me 

When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide 

This glorious fabric of the universe. 

Moscoir. 
How happens it, although you can maintain 
The folly of enjoying festivals, 
That yet you go there 1 

CLARITf. 

Nay, the consequence 
Is clear ; — ^who ever did what he advises 
Others to do 1 — 

MOSCON. 

Would that my feet were wings, 
So would I fly to Livia. 

lExit. 

CLARIX. 

To speak truth, 
Livia is she who has surprised my heart ; 
But he is more than half way there. — Soho ! 
Livia, I come ; good sport, Livia, soho ! 

[Exit. 

CTPRtAX. 

Now since I am alone, let me examine 

The question vifhich has long disturbed my mind 

With doubt, since first I read in Plinius 

The words of mystic import and deep sense 

In which he defines God. My intellect 

Can find no God with whom these marks and signs 

Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth 

Which I must fathom. 

[Reads. 
Enter the Devil, as a fine Gentleman. 

DJ5M0N. 

Search even as thou wilt. 

But thou shall never find what I can hide. 

CTPRIAX. 

What noise is that among the boughs ? Who moves 1 
What art thou 1 — 

B^MOX. 

'Tis a foreign gentleman. 
Even from this morning I have lost my way 
2 I 2 



378 



TRANSLATIONS. 



In this wild place, and my poor horse, at last 
Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon 
The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain, 
And feeds and rests at the same time. I was 
Upon my way to Antioch upon business 
Of some importance, but wrapt up in cares 
(Who is exempt from this inheritance'?) 
I parted from my company, and lost 
My way, and lost my servants and my comrades. 

CYPRIATSr. 

'Tis singular, that, even within the sight 

Of the high towers of Antioch, you could lose 

Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths 

Of this wild wood there is not one but leads, 

As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch ; 

Take which you will you cannot miss your road. 

D^MOX. 

And such is ignorance ! Even in the sight 
Of knowledge it can draw no profit from it. 
But, as it still is early, and as I 
Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 
Being a stranger there, I will even wait 
The few surviving hours of the day. 
Until the night shall conquer it. I see, 
Both by your dress and by the books in which 
You find delight and company, that you 
Are a great student ; — for my part, I feel 
Much sympathy with such pursuits. 

CTPKIAN. 

Have you 
Studied much ? — 

DJEMOT?. 

No ; — and yet I know enough 
Not to be wholly ignorant. 

CYPRIAN'. 

Pray, Sir, 
What science may you know 1 — 



Many. 



Alas! 



Much pains must we expend on one alone. 
And even then attain it not ; — ^liut you 
Have the presumption to assert that you 
Know many without study. 

DEMON. 

And with truth. 
For, in the country whence I come, sciences 
Require no learning, — they are known. 

CTPHIAN. 

Oh, would 
"I were of that bright countiy ! for in this 
The more we study, we the more discover 
Our ignorance. 

B^MON. 

It is so true that I 
Had so much arrogance as to oppose 
The chair of the most high Professorship, 
And obtained many votes, and though I lost, 



The attempt was still more glorious than the 

failure 
Could be dishonourable : if you believe not, 
Let us refer to dispute respecting 
That which you know best, and although I 
Know not the opinion you maintain, and though 
It be the true one, I will take the contrary. 

CTPniAlf. 

The offer gives me pleasure. I am now 
Debating with myself upon a passage 
Of Plinius, and my mind is racked with doubt 
To understand and know who is the God 
Of whom he speaks. 

D^MON. 

It is a passage, if 
I recollect it right, couched in these words : 
"God is one supreme goodness, one pure essence, 
One substance, and one sense, all sight, all hands." 



'Tis true. 



DIIMON. 

What difficulty find you here 1 



CTPHIAN. 

I do not recognise among the Gods 

The God defined by Plinius ; if he must 

Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 

Is not supremely good ; because we see 

His deeds are evil, and his attributes 

Tainted with mortal weakness. In what manner 

Can supreme goodness be consistent with 

The passions of humanity 1 

DJEMOS". 

The wisdom 
Of the old world masked with the names of Gods 
The attributes of Nature and of Man; 
A sort of popular philosophy. 

CTPRIAJf. 

This reply will not satisfy me, for 

Such awe is due to the high name of God, 

That ill should never be imputed. Then, 

Examining the question with more care, 

It follows, that the gods should always will 

That which is best, were they supremely good. 

How then does one will one thing — one another? 

And you may not say that I allege 

Poetical or philosophic learning : — 

Consider the ambiguous responses 

Of their oracular statues ; from two shrines 

Two armies shall obtain the assurance of 

One victory. Is it not indisputable 

That two contending wills can never lead 

To the same end 1 And, being opposite, 

If one be good is not the other evil 1 

Evil in God is inconceivable ; 

But supreme goodness falls among the gods 

Without their union. 

DiEMOir. 

I deny your major. 
These responses are means towards some end 
Unfathomed by our intellectual beam. 
They are the work of providence, and more 



SCENES FROM CALDERON. 



379 



The battle's loss may profit those who lose, 
Than victory advantage those who win. 

CTPRIAN. 

That I admit, and yet that God should not 
(Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 
Assure the victory, it would be enough 
To have permitted the defeat ; if God 
Be all sight, — God, who beheld the truth, 
Would not have given assurance of an end 
Never to be accomplished; thus, although 
The Deity may according to his attributes 
Be well distinguished into persons, yet, 
Even in the minutest circumstance. 
His essence must be one. 



To attain the end. 
The affections of the actors in the scene 
Must have been thus influenced by his voice. 

CTPniAX. 

But for a purpose thus subordmate 

He might have employed genii, good or evil,— 

A sort of spirits called so by the learned, 

Who roam about inspiring good or evil, 

And from whose influence and existence we 

May well infer our immortality : — • 

Tluis God might easily, without descending 

To a gross falsehood in his proper person. 

Have moved the affections by this mediation 

To the just point. 



These trifling contradictions 
Do not suffice to impugn the unity 
Of the high gods ; in things of great importance 
They still appear unanimous ; consider 
That glorious fabric — man, his workmanship, 
Is stamped with one conception. 



Who made man 
I\Iust have, methinks, the advantage of the others 
If they are equal, might they not have risen 
In opposition to the work, and being 
All hands, according to our author here, 
Have still destroyed even as the other made 1 
If equal in their power, and only unequal 
In opportunity, which of the two 
Will remain conqueror ] 



On impossible 
And false hj-pothesis, there can be built 
No argument. Say, what do you infer 
From this ] 



That there must be a mighty God 
Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, 
All sight, all hands, all truth, infiilhble, 
Without an equal and without a rival ; 
The cause of all things and the effect of nothing, 
One power, one will, one substance, and one essence. 
And in whatever persons, one or two. 
His attributes may be distinguished, one 



Sovereign power, one solitary essence, 
One cause of all cause. 

[_They rise 

How can I impugn 
So clear a consequence 1 

CTPniAN'. 

Do you regret 
My victory ? 

DJEMOir. 

Who hut rejects a check 
In rivalry of wit ? I could reply 
And urge new difficulties, but will now 
Depart, for I hear steps of men approaching, 
And it is time that I should now pursue 
My journey to the city. 

CXPHIAU-. 

Go in peace ! 

DJEMOX. 

Remain in peace ! Since thus it pro&ts hhn 
To study, I will wrap his senses up 
In sweet oblivion of thought but of 
A piece of excellent beauty ; and as I 
Have power given me to wage enmity 
Against Justina's soul, I will extract 
From one effect two vengeances. 

\Exit. 

CYPniAS-. 

I never 
Met a more learned person. Let me now 
Revolve this doubt again with careful mind. 

[//e reads. 
Enter Lelio and Flobo. 

LF-LIO. 

Here stop. Those toppling rocks and tangled 
Impenetrable by the noonday beam [boughs 

Shall be sole witnesses of what we — 

FLORO. 

Draw ! 
If there were words, here is the place for deeds. 

lELIO. 

Thou needest not instruct me ; well I know 
That in the field the silent tongue of steel 
Speaks thus. 

CTPHIAy. 

Ha ! what is this 1 Lelio, Floro, 
Be it enough that Cyprian stands between you. 
Although unarmed. 

LF.LIO. 

Whence comest thou, to stand 
Between me and my vengeance 7 

FLORO. 

From what rocks 
And desert cells 1 

Enter MoscoN and Clabin. 

MOSCON. 

Run, run ! for where we left my master. 
We hear the clash of swords. 



380 



TRANSLATIONS, 



I never 
Run to approach things of this sort, but only 
To avoid them. Sir ! Cyprian ! Sir ! 

CYPRIAN. 

Be silent, fellows ! What ! two friends who are 
In blood and flime the eyes and hope of Antioch; 
One of the noble men of the Colatti, 
The other son of the Governor, adventure 
And cast away, on some slight cause no doubt, 
Two Uves, the honour of their country 1 

LELIO. 

Cyprian, 
Although my high respect towards your person 
Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst not 
Restore it to the slumber of its scabbard. 
Thou knowest more of science than the duel ; 
For when two men of honour take the field. 
No counsel nor respect can make them friends, 
But one must die in the pursuit. 

FLORO. 

I pray 
That you depart hence with your people, and 
Leave us to finish what we have begun 
Without advantage. 

CTPRIAX. 

Though you may imagine 
That I know little of the laws of duel, 
Which vanity and valour instituted, 
You are in error. By my birth I am 
Held no less than yourselves to know the limits 
Of honour and of infamy, nor has study 
Quenched the free spirit which first ordered them ; 
And thus to me, as one well experienced 
In the false quicksands of the sea of honour. 
You may refer the merits of the case ; 
And if I should perceive in your relation 
That either has the right to satisfaction 
From the other, I give you my word of honour 
To leave you. 

LELIO. 

Under this condition then 
I will relate the cause, and you will cede 
And must confess the impossibility 
Of compromise ; for the same lady is 
Beloved by Floro and myself. 

FLORO. 

It seems 
Much to me that the light of day should look 
Upon that idol of my heart — but he — 
Leave us to fight, according to thy word. 

CrPRIAS^. 

Permit one question further : is the lady 
Impossible to hope or not ] 

LELIO. 

She is 
So excellent, that if the light of day 
Should excite Floro's jealousy, it were 
Without just cause, for even the light of day 
Trembles to gaze on her. 



Part marry her ? 



CXPHIAN. 

Would you for your 



FI.0RO. 

Such is my confidence. 

CyPRIAN. 

And you 1 

lELIO. 

0, would that I could lift my hope 
So high ! for though she is extremely poor. 
Her virtue is her dowry. 

CYPRIAN. 

And if you both 
Would marry her, is it not weak and vain. 
Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand 
To slur her honour 1 What would the world say 
If one should slay the other, and if she 
Should afterwards espouse the murderer ] 

\^T)ie rivals agree to refer their quarrel to Cyprian; 
who in consequevce visits Ji'stina, and becomes 
enamoured of her: she disdains him, and he re- 
tires to a solitary sea-shore. 



SCENE IL 



CYPRIATf. 



O memory ! permit it not 

That the tyrant of my thought 

Be another soul that still 

Holds dominion over the will ; 

That would refuse but can no more, 

To bend, to tremble, and adore. 

Vain idolatry ! — I saw. 

And gazing became blind with error ; 

Weak ambition, which the awe 

Of her presence bound to terror ! 

So beautiful she was — and I, 

Between my love and jealousy, 

Am so convulsed with hope and fear, 

Unworthy as it may appear ; 

So bitter is the life I live. 

That, hear me, Hell ! I now would give 

To thy most detested spirit 

My soul, for ever to inherit. 

To suffer punishment and pine, 

So this woman may be mine. 

Hear'st thou, Hell ! dost thou reject if? 

My soul is offered ! 

D^MON (^unseen,') 

I accept it. 

l^Tempest, with thunder and lightning 

CYPRIAN. 

What is this ! ye heavens, for ever pure, 
At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 

Athwart the ethereal halls 
The lightning's arrow and the thunder-balls 

The day affright, 

As from the horizon round. 

Burst with earthquake sound. 
In mighty torrents the electric fountains ; — ■ 
Clouds quench the sun, and thunder smoke 



SCENES FROM CALDERON. 



381 



Strangles the air, and fire eclipses heaven. 
Philosophy, thou canst not even 
Conipel their causes underneath thy yoke, 
From yonder clouds even to the waves below 
The fragments of a single ruin choke 

Imagination's flight ; 
For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light, 
The ashes of the desolation cast 

Upon the gloomy blast. 
Tell of the footsteps of the storm. 
And nearer see the melancholy form 
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, 

Drives miserably! 
And it must fly the pity of the port, 
Or perish, and its last and sole resort 
Is its own raging enemy. 

The terror of the thrilling cry 
Was a fatal prophecy 
Of coming death, who hovers now 
Upon that shattered prow. 
That they who die not may be dying still. 
And not alone the insane elements 
Are populous with wild portents, 
But that sad ship is as a miracle 
Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast 
It seems as if it had an'ajred its form 
With the headlong storm. 
It strikes — I almost feel the shock, — 
It stumbles on a jagged rock, — 
Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast. 
A tempest — JUl exclaim within 
We are all lost ! 

DiEsroN (within!) 

Now from this plank vdll I 
Pass to the land, and thus fulfil my scheme. 



As ia contempt of the elemental rage 

A man comes forth in safety, while the ship's 

Great form is in a watery eclipse 

Obliterated from the Ocean's page. 

And round its wreck the huge sea monsters sit, 

A horrid conclave, and the whistUng wave 

Are heaped over its carcass, like a grave. 

The D^MON enters as escaped from the sea. 

DJBMos (aside.') 

It was essential to my purposes 
To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean. 
That in this unknown form I might at length 
Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture 
Sustained upon the mountain, and assail 
With a new war the soul of Cyprian, 
Forging the instruments of his destruction 
Even from his love and from his wisdom. — O 
Beloved earth, dear mother, in thy bosom 
I seek a refuge from the monster who 
Precipitates itself upon me. 

crpniAir. 

Friend, 
Collect thyself; and be the memory 
Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow, 



But as a shadow of the past, — for nothing 
Beneath the circle of the moon but flows 
And changes, and can never know repose. 

DjaMOX. 

And who art thou, before whose feet my fate 
Has prostrated me 1 

CTPHIAJS". 

One who, moved with pity. 
Would soothe its stings. 

HMMON. 

Oh ! that can never be ! 
No solace can mj'' lasting sorrows find. 

CTPRIAN. 

Wherefore 1 

BJEMON. 

Because my happiness is lost. 
Yet I lament what has long ceased to be 
The object of desire or memory 
And my life is not life. 

CXPHIAir. 

Now, since the fury 
Of this earthquaking hurricane is still, 
And the crystalline heaven has reassumed 
Its windless calm so quickly, that it seems 
As if its heavy vsTath had been awakened 
Only to overwhelm that vessel, — speak, 
Who art thou, and whence comest thou 1 



Far more 
My coming hither cost than thou hast seen. 
Or I can tell. Among my misadventures 
This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou hear ? 

CTPHIAX, 

Speak. 

1IH3M0X. 

Since thou desirest, I will then unveil 

Myself to thee : — for in myself I am 

A world of happmess and misery ; 

This I have lost, and that I must lament 

For ever. In my attributes I stood 

So high and so heroically great. 

In lineage so supreme, and with a genius 

Which penetrated with a glance the world 

Beneath my feet, that won by my high merit 

A king — whom I may call the King of kings, 

Because all others tremble in their pride 

Before the terrors of his countenance, 

In his high palace roofed with brightest gems 

Of li\'ing light — call them the stars of Heaven — • 

Named me his counsellor. But the high praise 

Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose 

In mighty competition, to ascend 

His seat, and place my foot triumphantly 

Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, I know 

The depth to which ambition falls ; too mad 

Was the attempt, and j'et more mad were now 

Repentance of the irrevocable deed ; — 

Therefore I chose this ruin with the glory 

Of not to be subdued, before the shame 

Of reconciling me with him who reigns 



383 



TRANSLATIONS. 



By coward cession. — Nor was I alone, 

Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ; 

And there was hope, and there may still be hope. 

For many suf!rages among his vassals 

Hailed me their lord and king, and many still 

Are mine, and many more perchance shall be. 

Thus vanquished, though in fact victorious, 

I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 

Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my 

words 
With inauspicious thunderings shook Heaven, 
Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong, 
And imprecating on his prostrate slaves 
Rapine and death, and outrage. Then I sailed 
Over the mighty fabric of the world, 
A pirate ambushed in its pathless sands, 
A lynx crouched watchfully among its caves 
And craggy shores ; and I have wandered over 
The expanse of these wide wildernesses 
In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved 
In the light breathings of the invisible wind. 
And which the sea has made a dustless ruin, 
Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests 
I seek a man, whom I must now compel 
To keep his word with me. I came arrayed 
In tempest, and although my power could well 
Bridle the forest winds in their career, 
For other causes I forbore to soothe 
Their fuiy to Favonian gentleness ; 
I could and would not: (thus I wake in him [Aside. 
A love of magic art.) I^et not this tempest. 
Nor the succeeding calm excite thy wonder; 
For by my art the sun would turn as pale 
As his weak sister with unwonted fear ; 
And in my wisdom are the orbs of Heaven 
Written as in a record. I have pierced 
The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres, 
And know them as thou knowcst every corner 
Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee 
That I boast vainly ; wouldst thou that I work 
A charm over this waste and savage wood, 
This Babylon of crags and aged trees, 
Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 
Thrilling and strange ] I am the friendless guest 
Of these wild oaks and pines — and as from thee 
I have received the hoi^pitality 
Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit 
Of years of toil in recompense ; whate'er 
Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought 
As object of desire, that shall be tliine. 



And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 
'Twixt thou and me be, that neither fortune, 
The monstrous phantom which pursues success, 
That careful miser, that free prodigal, 
Who ever alternates with changeful hand 
Evil and good, reproach and fame ; nor Time, 
That loadstar of the ages, to whose beam 
The winged years speed o'er the intervals 
Of their unequal revolutions ; nor 
Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars 
Rule and adorn the world, can ever make 
The least division between thee and me, 
Since now I find a refuge in thy favour. 



SCENE TII. 

77te DjEmon tempts Justina, who is a Christian. 
D^MON. 

Abyss of Hell ! I call on thee, 

Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy ! 

From thy prison-house set free 

The spirits of voluptuous death. 

That with their mighty breath 

They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts ; 

I^et her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes 

Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, 

Till her guiltless phantasy 

Full to overflowing be I 

And, with sweetest harmony, [naove 

Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all things 

To love, only to love. 

Let nothing meet her eyes 

But signs of Love's soft victories; 

Let nothing meet her ear 

But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow; 

So that from faith no snccour may she borrow. 

But, guided by my spirit blind 

And in a magic snare entwined, 

She may now seek Cyprian. 

Begin, while I in silence bind 

My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast begun. 

A VOICE WITHIK. 

What is the glory far above 
All else in human life 1 



Love ! love I 

[ While these words are sung; the Daemon goes out at 
one door, and Justina enters at another. 

THE FIRST VOICE. 

There is no form in which the fire 
Of love its traces has impressed not. 
Man lives far more in love's desire 
Than by life's breath soon possessed not. 
If all that lives must love or die, 
All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky. 
With one consent to Heaven cry 
That the glory far above 
All else in life is — 

ALI^ 

Love ! O love t 



Thou melancholy thought, which art 
So fluttering and so sweet, to thee 
When did I give the liberty 
Thus to afflict my heart 1 
What is the cause of this new power 
Which doth ray fevered being move. 
Momently raging more and more 1 
What subtle pain is kindled now 
Which from my heart doth overflow 
Into ray senses'! — 

AI.L. 

Love, love! 



SCENES FROM CALDERON. 



383 



'TIs that enamoured iiig'atingale 
Who gives me the reply : 
He ever tells the same soft tale 
Of passion and of constancy 
To his mate, who rapt, and fond, 
Listening sits, a bough beyond. 

Be silent. Nightingale ! — No more 

Make me think, in hearing thee 

Thus tenderly thy love deplore, 

If a bird can feel his so, 

What a man would feel for me. 

And, voluptuous vine, O thou 

Who seekest most when least pursuing, — i 

To the trunk thou intcrlacest 

Art the verdure which embracest. 

And the weight which is its ruin, — 

No more, with green embraces, vine. 

Make me think on what thou lovest, — 

For whilst thou thus thy boughs entwine, 

I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist, 

How arms might be entangled too. 

Light-enchanted sunflower, thou 
Who gazest ever true and tender 
On the sun's revolving splendour, 
Follow not his faithless glance 
With thy faded countenance. 
Nor teach my beating heart to fear, 
If leaves can mourn without a tear, 
How eyes must weep ! O Nightingale, 
Cease from thy enamoured tale, — 
Leafy vine, unwreath thy bower, 
Restless sunflower, cease to move, — 
Or tell me all, what poisonous power 
Ye use against me. — 

ALL. 

Love! love! love! 



It cannot be ! Whom have I ever loved ! 
Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
Floro and Lelio did I not reject 1 
And Cyprian 1 — 

[Slie becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian. 
Did I not requite him 
With such severity, that he has fled 
Where none has ever heard of him again 1 — 
Alas ! I now begin to fear that this 
May be the occasion whence desire grows bold. 
As if there were no danger. From the moment 
That I pronounced to my own Ustening heait, 
C^'prian is absent, miserable me! 
I know not what I feel ! [More calmly. 

It must be pity 
To think that such a man, whom all the world 
Admired, should be forgot by all the world. 
And I the cause. [SA« ao-ain becomes troubled. 

And yet if it were pity, 
Floro and Lelio might have equal share. 
For they are both imprisoned for my sake. [Calmly. 
Alas ! what reasonings are these 1 It is 



Enough I pity him, and that, in vain. 
Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
And wo is me ! I know not where to find him now. 
Even should I seek him through this wide world. 

Enter D^mon, 

D^MON. 

Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. 

JUSTIXA. 

And who art thou, who has't found entrance hither. 
Into my chamber through the doors and locks 1 
Art thou a monstrous shadow which my madness 
Has formed m the idle air 1 



No. I am one 
Called by the thought which tyrannizes thee 
From his eternal dwelling ; who this day 
Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 

JUSTINA. 

So shall thy promise fail. This agony 
Of passion which afllicts my heart and soul 
May sweep imagination in its storm ; 
The will is firm. 

BiEMON. 

Already half is done 
In the imagination of an act. 
The sin incurred, the pleasure then remains ; 
Let not the will stop half way on the road. 

JUSTINA. 

I will not be discouraged, nor despair. 
Although I thought it, and although 'tis true 
That thought is but a prelude to the deed ; — 
Thought is not in my power, but action is : 
I will not iuove my foot to follow thee. ■ 

DaiMOX. 

But a far mightier wisdom than thine own 
Exerts itself within thee, with such power 
Compelling thee to that which it inclines 
That it shall force thy step ; how wilt thou then 
Resist, Justina] 

JUSTINA. 

By my free-will. 

BJEMON. 

I 

Must force thy -vvill. 

JUSTINA. 

It is invincible ; 
It were not free if thou hadst power upon it. 

[He draws, but cannot move her. 
B^MOJf. 

Come, where a pleasure waits thee. 

JUSTINA. 

It were bought 
Too dear. 

DMItOTf. 

'Twill soothe thy heart to softest peace. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis dread captivity. 



384 



TRANSLATIONS. 



'Tis joy, 'tis glory. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis shame, 'tis torment, 'tis despair 

DJEsrox. 

But how 
Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, 
If my power drags thee onward ] 



My defence 
Consists in God. 

[He vainly endeavours to force her, and at last 
releases her. 



Woman, thou hast subdued me. 
Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
But since thou thus findest defence in God, 
I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
For I will mask a spirit in thy form 
Who will betray thy name to infamy, 
And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss. 
First by dishonouring thee, and then by turning 
False pleasure to true ignominy. lExit. 

JUSTINA. 

I 

Appeal to Heaven against thee ! so that Heaven 
May scatter thy delusions, and the blot 
Upon my fame vanish in idle thought. 
Even as flame dies in the envious air. 
And as the flow'ret wanes at morning frosi, 

And thou shouldst never But, alasj to whom 

Do I still speak "! — Did not a man but now 
Stand here before me? — No, I am alone. 
And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly 1 
Or can the heated mind engender shapes 
From its own fear ] Some terrible and strange 
Peril is near. Lisander ! father ! lord 
Livia ! — 

Enter Lisjvndeii and Livia, 

LISASTDER. 

my daughter ; what 1 

XITIA. 

What? 

JT7STINA. 

Saw yoa 
A man go forth from my apartment now ? — 

1 scarce sustain myself! 

IISANDER. 

A man here ! 



JtJSTINA. 

Have you not seen him ? 

IIVIA. 

No, lady. 

JUSTINA. 

I saw him. 

IISANDEK. 

'Tis impossible ; the doors 
Which led to this apartment were all locked. 

LIVIA (aside.) 
I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw 
For he was locked up in my room. 

LISANDEH. 

It mast 
Have been some image of thy phantasy. 
Such melancholy as thou feedest is 
Skilful in forming such in the vain air 
Out of the motes and atoms of the day. 

IIVIA. 

My master's in the right. 

JCSTIXA. 

Oh, would it were 
Delusion ! but I fear some greater ill. 
I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 
My heart was torn in fragments ; ay, 
Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame ; 
So potent was the charm, that had not God 
Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, 
I should have sought my sorrow and my shame 
With willing steps. — Livia, quick, bring my cloak, 
For I must seek refuge from these extremes 
Even in the temple of the highest God 
Wliich secretly the faithful worship. 

IIVIA, 

Here. 

jusTiwA (^putting on her cloak.') 

In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I 

Quench the consuming fire in which I bum, 

Wasting away ! 

IISANDEH. 

And I will go with thee. 

LITIA. 

When I once see them safe out of the house, 
I shall breathe freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So do I confide 
In thy just favour, Heaven ! 

iISA:XDEH. 

Let us go. 

JlJSTIS'A. 

Thine is the cause, great God ! Turn, for my sake 
And for thine own, mercifully to me ! 



SCENES FROM FAUST. 



385 



SCENES 
FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. 

The Lord and the Host of Heaven. 

Enter Three Archangels. 

RAPHAEL. 

The sun makes music as of old 

Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
On its predestined circle rolled 

With thunder speed : the Angels even 
Draw strength from gazing on its glance, 

Thougji none its meaning fathom may ;- 
The world's unwithered countenance 

Is bright as at creation's day. 



And swift and swift, with rapid lightness. 

The adorned Earth spins silently, 
Alternating Elysian brightness 

With deep and dreadful night ; the sea 
Foams in broad billows from the deep 

Up to the rocks ; and rocks and ocean, 
Onward, with spheres which never sleep. 

Are hurried in eternal motion. 

MICHAEL. 

And tempests in contention roar 

From land to sea, from sea to land 
And, raging, weave a chain of power 

Which girds the earth as with a band. 
A flashing desolation there 

Flames before the thunder's way ; 
But thy servants, Lord, revere 

The gentle changes of thy day. 

CHORUS OF THE THREE. 

The Angels draw strength from thy glance, 
Though no one comprehend thee may : — 

Thy world's unwithered countenance 
Is bright as on creation's day.* 

* RAPHAEL. 

The sun sounds, according to ancient custom, 
In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres, 
And its fore-written circle 
Fulfils with a step of thunder. 
Its countenance gives the Angels strength, 
Though no one can fathom it. 
The incredible high works 
Are excellent as at the first day, 
49 



Enter Mephistopheles, 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 



As thou, O Lord, once more art kind enough 

To interest thyself in our affairs — 

And ask, " How goes it with you there below 1" 

And as indulgently at other times 

Thou tookedst not my visits in ill part. 

Thou seest me here once more among thy household. 

Though I should scandalize this company, 

You will excuse me if I do not talk 

In the high style which they think fashionable ; 

My pathos certainly would make you laugh too. 

Had you not long since given over laughing. 

Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds ; 

I observe only how men plague themselves ; — 

The little god o' the world keeps the same stamp. 

As wonderful as on creation's day : — 

A little better would he live, hadst thou 

Not given him a glimpse of Heaven's light 

Which he calls reason, and employs it only 

To live more beastily than any beast. 

GABRIEL. 

And swift, and inconceivably swift 
The adornment of earth winds itself 
And exchanges Paradise-clearness 
With deep dreadful night. 
The sea foams in broad waves 
From its deep bottom up to the rocks. 
And rocks and sea are torn on together 
In the eternal swift course of the spheres. 

MICHAEL. 

And storms roar in emulation 
From sea to land, from land to sea, 
And make, raging, a chain 
Of deepest operation round about. 
There flames a flashing destruction 
Before the path of the thunderbolt. 
But thy servants. Lord, revere 
The gentle alternations of thy day. 

CHORUS. 

Thy countenance gives the Angels strength. 

Though none can comprehend thee : 

And all thy lofty works 

Are excellent as at the first day. 
Such is the literal translation of this astonishing 
Chorus ; it is impossible to represent in another lan- 
guage the melody of the versification ; even the volatile 
strength and delicacy of the ideas escape in the crucible 
of translation, and the reader is surprised to find a caput 
mortuum. — Author's JVute. 

9 K 



386 



TRANSLATIONS. 



■\Vith reverence to your lordship be it spoken. 
He's like one of those lonii-legged grasshoppers 
^Vho Hits and jumps about^ and sings for ever 
The same old song i the grass. There let him lie, 
Burying his nose in every heap of dung. 

THK LOKD. 

Have you no more to say \ Do you come here 
Always to scold, and cavil, and complain ? 
Seems nothing ever right to you on ctuth ? 

5IKPH1ST0VUELES. 

No, Lord ; I find all there, as ever, bad at best 
Even I am sorry for man's days of sorrow ; 
I could myself almost give up the pleasure 
Of plaguing the poor things. 

TUE LORD. 

Knowest thou Faust 1 



MEPinSTOPHELES. 



The Doctor 1 



THE LORn. 

Ay ; my servant Faust 

MEPHISTOl'HELES. 

In truth 
He serves you in a fashion quite his own, 
And the fool's meat and drink are not of eartli. 
His aspirations bear him on so far 
That he is half aware of his own folly, 
For he demands from heaven its fairest star, 
And from the earth the higliest joy it bears ; 
Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain 
To calm the deep emotions of his breast. 

THE LORD. 

Though he now serves me in a cloud of error, 
I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. 
When trees look green, full well the gardener knows 
That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What will you bet ? — now I am sure of winning — 
Only observe you give me full permission 
To lead him softly on my path. 

THE LOUD. 

As along 
As he shall live upon the earth, so long 
Is nothing unto thee forbidden. — Man 
Must err till he has ceased to struggle. 

MEPUISTOPHELES. 

Thanks. 
And that is all I ask ; for willingly 
I never make acquaintance with the dead. 
The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me, 
And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. 
For I am like a cat — I like to play 
A Uttle witli the mouse before I cat it 

THE LORD. 

Well, well, it is pennitted thee. Draw thou 
His spirit from its springs ; as thou find'st power. 
Seize him and lead him on thy downward path ; 
And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee 
That a good man, even in his darkest longings, 
Is well aware of the right way. 



MEPHISTOPHELT.S. 

"SV'cll and good. 
I am not in much doubt about my bet. 
And, if I lose, then 'tis your turn to crow ; 
Enjoy your triumph then with a lull breast 
Ay ; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure. 
Like my old paramour, the fiuuous Snake. 

•THE toun. 
I*ray come here when it suits you ; for I never 
Had nuich dislike for jieople of your sort 
And, among all the Spirits who rebelled, 
The knave was ever the least tedious to me. 
The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 
He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I 
Have given him the Devil for a companion, 
Who may provoke him to some sort of work, 
And must create for ever. — But ye, pure 
Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;— 
Let that which ever operates and lives 
Clasp you wittiin the limits of its love ; 
And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts 
The floating phantoms of its loveliness. 

[^Heaven closes; the ^rckaiiffels ezevnt. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

From time to time I visit the old fellow, 

And I take care to keep on good terms with him. 

Civil enough is this sanie God Almighty, 

To talk so freely witli the Devil himself. 



SCENE. 



MAY-DAY NIGHT. 

The ITartz .Mountain, a dcsoUiie Country. 

FAVST, MEPHISTOPHELES. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Would you not like a broomstick ] As for me 

I wish I had a good stout ram to ride ; 

For we are still far from th' appointed place. 

FAUST. 

Tliis knotted stafl'is help enough for me, 

AMiilst I feel fresh ujion my legs. AVhat good 

Is there in making short a pleasant way ! 

To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, 

And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs 

Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, 

In the true sport that seasons such a path. 

Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, 

And the hoar pines already feel her breath : 

Shall she not work also within our limbs ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing of such an intluence do I feel. 

My body is all wintry, and I wish 

The tlowers upon our path were frost and snow. 

But see, how melancholy rises now, 

Dimly uplifting her belated beam, 

The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, 

And gives so bad a light that every step 

One stumbles 'gainst some crag. With your per- 

ril call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid : [mission 

I see one yonder burning jollily. 



SCENES FROM FAUST. 



387 



Halloo, my friend ! may I request that you 
Would favour us with your bright company 1 
Why should you blaze away there to no purpose 1 
Pray be so good as light us up this way. 



IGNIS-FATUUS. 



With reverence be it spoken, I will try 
To overcome the lightness of my natare; 
Our course, you know, is generally zig-zag. 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 



Ha, ha ! your worship thinks you have to deal 
With men. Go straight on in the Devil's name, 
Or I shall puff your flickermg life out. 



IGNIS-FATUUS. 



Well 



I see you are the master of the house ; 

I will accommodate myself to you. 

Only consider that to-night this mountain 

Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern 

Shows you his way, though you should miss your 

own, 
You ought not to be too exact with him. 

Faust, Mephistopheles, and Ignis-fatuus in alter- 
nate Chorus. 

The limits of the sphere of dream, 

The bounds of true and false, are past. 
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, 

Lead us onward, far and fast. 

To the wide, the desert waste. 
But see, how swdft advance and shift 

Trees behind trees, row by row, — • 
How, clift by chft, rocks bfend and lift 

Their frowning foreheads as we go. 

The giant-snouted crags, ho ! ho ! 

How they snort, and how they blow ! 

Through the mossy sods and stones, 
Stream and streamlet hurry down, 
A rushing throng ! A sound of song 
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown! 
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
Of this bright day, sent down to say 
That Paradise on Earth is known, 
Resound around, beneath, above. 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in this blithe strain. 
Which wakens hill and wood and rill. 
And vibrates far o'er field and vale, 
And which Echo, like the tale 
Of old times, repeats again. 

To-whoo ! to-whoo ! near, nearer now 

The sound of song, the rushing throng ! 

Are the screech, the lapwing and the jay, 

All awake as if 'twere day ? 

See, with long legs and belly wide, 

A salamander in the brake ! 

Every root is like a snake, 

And along the loose hill side. 

With strange contortions through the night. 

Curls, to seize or to affright; 

And animated, strong, and many, 

They dart forth polypus-antennse, 



To blister with their poison spume 

The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom 

The many-coloured mice that thread 

The dewy turf beneath our tread. 

In troops each other's motions cross, 

Through the heath and through the moss ; 

And in legions intertangled. 

The fireflies flit, and swarm, and throng. 

Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 

Tell me, shall we go or stay 1 

Shall we onward ] Come along ! 

Every thing around is swept 

Forward, onward, far away ! 

Trees and masses intercept 

The sight, and wisps on every side 

Are pufil'd up and multiplied. 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 



Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain 
This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
One may observe with wonder from this point 
How Mammon glows among the mountains. 



Ay- 
And strangely through the solid depth below 
A melancholy light, like the red dawn. 
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abj'ss 
Of mountains, lighting hitherward ; there, rise 
Pillars of smoke ; here, clouds float gently by; 
Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air. 
Or the illumined dust of golden flowers ; 
And now it glides like tender colours spreading ; 
And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth ; 
And now it winds one torrent of broad light. 
Through the far valley with a hundred veins ; 
And now once more within that narrow corner 
Masses itself into intensest splendour. 
And near us see sparks spring out of the ground, 
Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness ; 
The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains 
That hems us in are kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Rare, in faith ! 
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate 
His palace for this festival — it is 
A pleasure which you had not known before. 
I spy the boisterous guests already. 



How 
The children of the wind rage in the air! 
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 
Beware ! for if with them thou warrest 
In their fierce flight towards the wilderness. 
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag 
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 

A cloud thickens the night. 
Hark ! how the tempest crashes through the forest ! 

The owls fly out in strange affright ; 
The columns of the evergreen palaces 



388 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Are split and shattered ; 

The roots creak, and stretch, and gi'oan ; 

And ruinously overthrown, 

The trunks are crushed and shattered 

By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress. 

Over each other crack and crash they all 

In terrible and intertangled fall; 

And through the ruins of the shaken mountain 

The airs hiss and howl — • 
It is not the voice of the fountain. 
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not tere^ A >.•.»„-. 
Strange accents are ringing 
Aloft, afar, ancar; 

The witches are singing ! 
The torrent of a raging wizard's song 
Streams the whole mountain along, 

CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green. 
Now to the Brocken the witches go ; 
The mighty multitude here may be seen 
Gathermg, wizard and witch, below. 
Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air ; 
Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 
'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done ? 
Tell it who dare ! tell it who dare ! 

A VOICE. 

Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, 
Old Baubo rideth alone. 



Honour her to whom honour is due, 
Old mother Baubo, honour to you ! 
An able sow with old Baubo upon her, 
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour ! 
The legion of witches is coming behind, 
Darkening the night and outspeeding the wind — 

A VOICE. 

Which way comest thou 1 

A VOICE. 

Over Ilsenstein ; 
The owl was awake in the white moon-shine ; 
I saw her at rest in her downy nest. 
And she stared at me with her broad bright eyne. 



And you may now as well take your course on to 

Hell," 
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. 



She dropt poison upon me as I past. 
Here are the wounds — 

CHOBCrS OF WITCHES. 

Come av^ay ! come along ! 
The way is wide, the way is long. 
But what is that for a Bedlam throng 1 
Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom. 
The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, 
And the mother is clapping her hands — 



SEMICHORUS OF WIZARDS I. 

We glide in 
Like snails when the women are all away ; 
And fi-om a house once given over to sin 
Woman has a thousand stops to stray. 

SEMICHORTJS II. 

A thousand steps must a woman take, 
Where a man but a single spring will make. 

VOICES ABOVE. 

Come with us, come with us, from Felunsee. 

VOICES BELOW. 

With what joy would we fly through the upper sky ! 
We are washed, we are 'nointed, stark naked are we;- 
But our toil and our pain are for ever in vain. 

BOTH CHORUSSES. 

The wind is still, the stars are fled, 
The melancholy moon is dead ; 
The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
Drizzle, wliistling through the dark. 
Come away ! 

VOICES BELOW. 

Stay, oh stay ! 

VOICES ABOVE. 

Out of the crannies of the rocks 
Who calls 1 

VOICES BELOW. 

Oh, let me join your flocks ! 

I, three hundred years have striven 

To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven,— 

And still in vain. Oh, might I be 

With company akin to me ! 

BOTH CHORUSSES. 

Some on a ram and some one a prong, 

On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along ; 

Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. 

A HALF WITCH BELOW. 

I have been trippling this many an hour: 
Are the others already so far before 1 
No quiet at home, and no peace abroad ! 
And less methinks is found by the road. 

CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

Come onward, away ! aroint thee, aroint ! 
A witch to be strong must anoint — anoint- 
Then every trough will be boat enough ; 
With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky, 
Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly 1 

BOTH CHORUSSES. 

We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground ; 
Witch-lcgions thicken around and around ; 
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over, 

[They descend. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling ! 
What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling ! 
What glimmering, spurting, stuiking, burning ! 
As Heaven and earth were overturning-. 



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